99k 


V 


Prologue 


BY 


PHYLLIS  DUGANNE 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  HOWE 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ2O.    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACK   AND   HOWE,    INC. 


THE  QUINN    at   BODEN   COMPANY 
RAHWAY.    N.   J 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 


2129095 


PROLOGUE 


PROLOGUE 

Part  One 
CHAPTER  ONE 


THE  curtain  fell  slowly  at  the  close  of  the  first  act  of 
Peter  Pan.  Rita  squirmed  in  her  seat,  and  turned  to  smile 
at  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  muv!  " 

"  It's  charming,  isn't  it,  dear?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  looked  about  at  the  audience.  There  were  many 
children  no  older  than  herself,  chattering,  wriggling  about, 
waving  their  hands.  But  her  heart  was  too  full,  too  happy, 
for  her  to  talk.  She  was  wondering  whether,  if  she  truly 
believed,  she,  too,  could  fly.  She  did  believe.  If  she  was 
Wendie,  she  would  fly  straight  out  the  window  to  Larch- 
borough.  There  was  a  lake  there  and  the  big  gray  cat 
often  had  kittens. 

The  usher  came  up  the  aisle  with  a  tray  of  glasses. 
"  Water?  " 

"  Do  you  want  some  water,  dear?  "  Lilias  Moreland 
asked. 

Rita  shook  her  head.  Perhaps  if  you  believed  very  hard 
.  .  .  The  usher  went  to  the  next  row,  and  Rita  gasped. 

3 


4  PROLOGUE 

"  Muv!  " 

"  Yes,  dear?  " 

Rita  hesitated.  "  Nothing — I  guess."  Her  mother  would 
not  understand.  But  Rita  knew.  It  was  the  first  time  in 
her  life  that  she  had  not  taken  the  glass  of  water  the  usher 
offered.  She  was  growing  up! 

Rita  Moreland  was  eleven  years  old. 

The  theater  darkened,  and  again  the  curtain  hung  trem- 
bling over  a  row  of  lights  that  was  like  a  string  of  beads. 
Rita  leaned  forward  in  her  seat. 

The  curtain  had  fallen  at  the  close  of  the  last  act  of 
Peter  Pan.  Rita  sat  silently,  looking  about  at  the  audience. 
Everyone  was  standing  up,  except  one  little  girl  in  the 
next  row  who  was  crying.  "  The  curtain  fell  down  before 
and  came  up  again, "  she  was  sobbing.  "  I  don't  believe 
that  it's  all  over.  I'm  going  to  sit  here  and  wait. "  "  But 
don't  you  see  all  the  other  people  going  away?  "  her  mother 
asked.  The  little  girl  looked  about  tearfully.  "  Maybe 
they  have  to  catch  trains,  "  she  said,  and  began  crying  again. 
Rita  smiled  sympathetically.  Mothers  and  nurses  were 
buttoning  coats  on  wide-eyed  children,  putting  on  hats, 
untangling  the  long  mitten  tapes  that  always  get  caught 
in  your  coat  sleeves. 

"  Rita!  How  many  times  must  I  speak  to  you?  "  Her 
own  mother  was  holding  out  her  coat.  "  Rita,  do  look 
where  you're  putting  your  arms!  "  She  stood  docilely, 
while  Lilias  buttoned  it,  snapped  the  elastic  of  her  brown 
hat  beneath  her  chin. 

"  Did  the  crocodile  really  have  the  alarm-clock  in  his 
stomach,  Mother?  " 


PROLOGUE  5 

"  What  do  you  think?  " 

"  Aren't  you  glad,  Mother,  that  the  pirates  had  to  walk 
the  plank?  Wasn't  Peter  brave?  " 

"  Yes,  dear.    Now  come.    Rita !  " 

Out  again  into  the  street.  It  was  strange  to  find  the  sun 
still  shining,  and  the  electric  lights  just  snapping  on  here 
and  there.  It  was  still  the  same  day.  Rita  wondered 
whether  all  the  people  who  were  crowding  along  the  side- 
walk had  seen  Peter  Pan.  She  wanted  to  stop  and  tell 
them  that  they  should,  but  it  would  take  a  long  time,  and 
probably  her  mother  would  not  like  it. 

"  Rita,  don't  dawdle  so.  I've  got  to  get  home  and  into 
an  evening  dress.  Rita!  " 

"  All  right,  Mother." 

She  looked  ahead  of  her,  and  tried  to  walk  quickly.  If 
she  thought  too  much  about  Peter  Pan,  she  would  forget 
to  walk. 

"  Mother !  "  Lilias  Moreland  was  several  steps  ahead 
and  some  strange  people  had  separated  them.  Rita  ran  up 
and  caught  her  hand;  she  was  panting  with  excitement  be- 
cause she  had  almost  been  lost.  "  Mother,  will  they  do  it 
all  over  again  tonight?  " 

"  Of  course,  Rita.    Don't  be  absurd." 

"No,  Mother."  Rita  did  not  want  to  be  absurd;  she 
wanted  to  find  out  how  often  they  played  Peter  Pan.  Per- 
haps her  mother  would  take  her  again.  She  decided  not 
to  ask  her  until  the  next  day;  she  was  in  a  hurry  now,  and 
would  be  sure  to  say  no. 

Finally  they  reached  the  house.  Rita  could  not  remem- 
ber having  passed  the  corner  where  the  funny  stone  lions 


6  PROLOGUE 

were.  She  liked  to  stop  and  pat  them.  They  must  have 
come  that  way.  Her  mother  was  reaching  in  her  bag  for 
the  key;  she  unlocked  the  door. 

"  Mother—" 

"Oh,  run  up  to  your  room,  Rita,  and  get  washed  for 
supper.  I  must  hurry." 

In  the  living-room  she  saw  her  father.  She  rushed  in 
and  climbed  up  on  his  lap.  "  Oh,  Father,  we've  been  to  see 
Peter  Pan,  and—" 

She  heard  her  mother  laughing  in  the  hallway. 

II 

Rita  was  lying  in  bed  in  her  room,  with  her  toys  scattered 
on  the  white  spread.  She  looked  at  them  listlessly;  she 
loved  them  all,  the  great  dirty  teddy-bear,  old  Dinah,  the 
baby  doll  whose  wig  had  come  off,  the  little  dolls.  There 
was  a  fairy-book  on  the  table  beside  the  bed,  and  two 
bottles,  a  glass  and  a  spoon.  That  was  because  she  was 
sick;  the  doctor  came  every  day  to  feel  her  wrist  and  look 
at  her  tongue.  He  asked  her  mother  questions  that  Rita 
did  not  understand,  and  was  very  cross  with  everyone 
except  herself. 

She  was  too  tired  to  read,  or  to  play  with  any  of  the 
dolls.  It  was  strange  that  she  should  be  tired  when  she 
had  not  done  anything  but  lie  quietly  for  three  weeks. 

Her  mother  and  father  were  standing  in  the  hall  out- 
side the  door,  talking. 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  you  should  act  as  though  it 
were  all  my  fault,"  her  mother  said. 


PROLOGUE  7 

Webster  Moreland  laughed.  "  I  don't  see  any  reason 
why  I  should  act  as  though  it  were  not,  my  dear,"  he  said. 

Rita  pressed  her  hot  cheek  against  the  pillow  and  listened. 
When  her  father  said  "  my  dear  ",  it  meant  that  he  was 
angry.  He  was  angry  when  he  laughed,  unless  it  was  at 
Rita.  They  were  talking  about  her,  because  the  doctor 
had  said  she  did  not  have  proper  food  or  exercise  or  sleep, 
and  that  it  was  a  crime  to  bring  her  up  in  the  city.  Her 
mother  had  cried,  and  Rita  had  scowled  at  the  doctor. 

"  Of  course  we'll  go  to  Larchborough  right  away, "  her 
father  said. 

Rita's  eyes  brightened.  Larchborough!  That  would  be 
great  fun.  In  Larchborough,  she  could  play  out-of-doors, 
and  watch  the  tan  creep  up  over  her  white  arms,  and  spread 
over  the  freckles  that  came  first,  on  her  face. 

"  Oh,  Larchborough — Larchborough!  "  her  mother  said 
impatiently.  "  You  and  your  old  Larchborough!  I  wish — " 

u  You  can  have  any  of  your — friends — with  you,  that 
you  want,  you  know,  "  her  father  said.  "  You  know  that  I 
don't  give  a  damn  what  you  do,  or  what  people  say  about 
us." 

He  went  downstairs,  thumping  angrily  on  the  carpet,  and 
Rita  wondered  why  people  should  say  things  if  her  mother's 
friends  came  to  visit  them.  Her  mother  came  into  the 
room  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  but  Rita  did  not  ask 
her.  It  was  probably  another  secret. 

"  Should  you  like  to  go  to  Larchborough?  "  asked  Lilias. 

"Oh,  Mother!  " 

"  We'll  go  as  soon  as  we  can  get  ready." 

Her  mother  went  downstairs,  and  Rita  lay  smiling  until 


8  PROLOGUE 

she  fell  asleep  from  happiness,  and  thinking  of  the  many 
things  she  would  do. 

They  were  ready  in  two  weeks,  and  the  New  York  house 
was  closed. 

Ill 

Indirect  lighting  was  still  a  novelty,  and  Lilias  Moreland 
smiled  as  she  looked  at  her  living-room.  The  maid  had 
brought  coffee,  and  the  guests  were  seated  about  the  fire- 
place. The  nest  of  black  and  silver  lacquered  tables — 
also  new  to  America  in  1910 — was  causing  admiration.  The 
guests  were  too  polite  to  verbally  admire  the  slender  coffee 
pot  of  beaten  silver,  the  delicate  cups  and  saucers.  After 
a  certain  point,  admiration  becomes  uncomplimentary. 

She  stood  swaying  in  the  doorway,  contented  with  her 
room.  Her  house  was  the  only  thing  that  made  Larch- 
borough  bearable  for  her;  she  hated  the  country,  and  her 
husband's  home.  The  living-room  was  nicely  proportioned, 
paneled  in  white,  hung  with  good  paintings.  She  had  built 
it  about  herself;  there  was  not  a  piece  of  furniture  or  color 
that  was  out  of  the  picture. 

Across  the  room  she  saw  Ernest  Harvey's  eyes  seeking 
hers.  Her  husband  was  talking  to  Malcolm  Heath;  Mrs. 
Heath  and  Arthur  Davis  were  talking  together.  Ernest  was 
sitting  alone,  a  little  apart,  on  the  wine-colored  couch,  obvi- 
ously waiting  for  her  to  join  him.  She  smiled  in  his  direc- 
tion, her  eyes  avoiding  his,  and  walked  over  to  the  fireplace. 
For  a  moment  she  kept  the  men  standing  while  she  adjusted 
her  flame-colored  scarf.  Then  she  chose  a  chair  slightly 
in  shadow,  and  sat  down,  showing  slender  ankles  and  legs 


PROLOGUE  9 

in  gold  silk  stockings,  small  feet  in  French-heeled  slippers. 

Arthur  Davis  turned  from  Mrs.  Heath  to  speak  to  her, 
and  she  nodded,  smiling.  She  was  looking  at  her  daughter, 
standing  beside  Webster  Moreland.  Lilias  frowned.  She 
did  not  like  to  see  them  together;  they  were  too  much  alike. 
There  was  the  same  wavy  red  hair,  the  cool  green  eyes, 
over-thick,  over-black  brows  and  lashes.  As  she  watched, 
Rita  kissed  his  cheek,  and  ran  over  to  the  couch,  climbed 
into  Ernest  Harvey's  lap.  When  she  laughed,  she  was  less 
like  her  father.  She  pulled  the  flower  from  Harvey's  button- 
hole, and  smelled  it.  Lilias  had  given  it  to  him.  Harvey 
laughed  suddenly. 

"Rita!  " 

Rita  looked  up  quickly,  one  hand  still  patting  Ernest 
Harvey's  cheek.  "  Yes,  Mother?  " 

"  Come  here." 

She  threaded  her  way  among  the  chairs,  a  tall,  graceful 
child.  Lilias  put  her  arm  about  her,  and  bent  her  head  so 
that  their  cheeks  touched.  She  was  smiling  as  she  brushed 
Rita's  hair  from  her  forehead,  but  her  voice  had  a  note  that 
was  there  when  she  scolded. 

"  Rita,  I  don't  want  you  to  sit  in  men's  laps  any  more. 
You  are  too  old.  Do  you  understand?  " 

Rita  nodded.  She  did  not  understand,  but  she  felt  vaguely 
that  here  was  another  of  the  things  one  accepts  unques- 
tioning. She  turned,  and  shook  her  head  at  Ernest  Harvey 
who  was  holding  out  his  arms.  Then  suddenly  she  felt  tears 
rising  to  her  eyes;  she  pulled  away  from  her  mother  and 
ran  up  to  her  bedroom. 

She  liked  her  room.    One  wall  was  lined  with  shelves  for 


io  PROLOGUE 

her  books,  and  two  of  the  others  were  broken  by  window- 
seats  and  casement  windows.  They  creaked  at  night,  if  it 
was  windy,  and  Rita  pretended  she  was  on  a  ship.  It  was 
exciting  when  a  sudden  storm  blew  up  from  the  lake,  and 
she  fumbled  with  the  hooks  and  closed  the  windows  while 
the  rain  beat  on  her  face  and  dress,  and  the  lightning  made 
her  arms  gleam.  Beneath  the  lowest  shelf  her  dolls  sat 
stiffly  on  a  row  of  chairs,  as  though  they  were  waiting.  Rita 
took  up  the  sailor  doll  that  her  father  had  brought  from 
New  York,  and  rocked  him  in  her  arms.  His  name  was 
Jack.  She  held  him  out  at  arm's  length,  and  looked  affec- 
tionately at  his  curly  hair,  his  round  pink  cheeks. 

For  the  first  time,  strangely,  she  realized  that  he  was  a 
bgy-doll. 

IV 

The  clock  had  struck  eight,  and  as  Rita  heard  the  last 
stroke,  she  sighed  deeply.  She  looked  down  at  her  white 
dress  approvingly.  It  was  her  twelfth  birthday,  and  she 
was  having  a  party.  She  did  not  have  to  go  upstairs  with 
Annie. 

The  line  between  her  heavy  eyebrows  deepened,  as  she 
stood  alone  at  the  window.  It  was  a  satisfactory  party; 
she  was  glad  that  her  birthday  came  in  July  when  Larch- 
borough  was  rainbowed  with  flowers.  Her  mother  had  come 
to  the  center  of  the  room  and  held  out  a  deep  basket. 
There  were  daisies  and  buttercups  and  clover,  roses, 
zinnia,  nasturtiums — flowers  that  Annie  had  picked  in 
the  gardens,  and  flowers  that  Rita  herself  had  gathered 
in  the  fields.  There  were  two  of  each,  and  the  children 


PROLOGUE  ii 

hurried  about,  matching  them,  finding  their  partners  for 
the  Portland  Fancy.  It  had  been  a  pretty  dance,  and  now 
the  victrola  had  started  again,  and  the  children  were  two- 
stepping.  Their  white  dresses  and  bright  ribbons  were 
pretty  in  the  candle-lit  room  against  the  white  paneling  of 
the  walls. 

But  Rita  scowled  as  she  watched  them.  Nowhere  among 
the  laughing  little  girls  and  boys  could  she  find  Bobby.  And 
Bobby  was  her  beau.  Her  mother  had  said  so.  She  was 
not  sure  that  she  wanted  a  beau;  she  had  never  had  one, 
and  she  was  not  sure  of  the  duties.  But  her  mother  had 
told  her  so,  and  she  felt  a  heavy  sense  of  responsibility 
towards  Bobby. 

She  pushed  open  the  screen  door  and  stepped  out  on  the 
piazza.  The  smooth  lawn,  shining  in  the  moonlight,  rolled 
down  from  the  house  and  slipped  away  into  the  dark  tangle 
of  pine  trees  at  the  edge  of  the  lake.  The  path,  with  its 
floor  of  shiny  needles,  wound  through  the  grove  to  the  boat- 
house  where  the  pump  was  coughing  and  sighing.  Across 
the  lake,  the  Weldon's  float  was  lighted;  a  red  canoe 
slid  across  the  moon-path  in  the  opening  of  trees  on  the 
shore. 

But  Bobby  .  .  .  She  peered  into  the  shadows  of  the 
piazza.  Then  she  laughed,  and  pattered  to  the  farthest 
corner  where  he  was  sitting.  His  head  was  bowed  on  his 
knees.  As  she  reached  him,  he  raised  his  head,  and  she 
saw  that  he  was  crying. 

"  Go  away!  "  he  said. 

Rita  hesitated;  then,  regardless  of  her  ruffles,  she  sank  to 
the  floor  beside  him.  "  What's  the  matter,  Bobby?  " 


12  PROLOGUE 

"  Go  away!  " 

Rita  considered.  She  settled  herself  more  comfortably 
and  waited. 

"  She  said  she'd  dance  the  Virginia  Reel  with  me,"  said 
Bobby. 

Rita  was  silent. 

"  An'  she  sent  me  off  to  get  her  ice-cream  an'  when  I  got 
back  she  was  eating  ice-cream  he  brought  her." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Rita  said. 

"  An'  this  dance  was  mine.    She's  dancing  with  him." 

In  the  house,  music  was  streaming  from  the  victrola; 
little  boys  and  girls,  awkwardly  holding  each  other,  were 
dancing,  their  backs  held  stiff,  their  knees  unbending.  Rita 
could  see  her  mother  talking  with  another  mother.  She  was 
not  so  pretty  when  she  talked  with  a  woman;  her  mouth 
did  not  pull  up  and  down  at  the  corners,  turn  from  a  smile 
into  the  delightful  roundness  that  Rita  always  wanted  to 
kiss. 

"  Will  you  dance  with  me?  "  asked  Rita. 

"  Don't  want  to." 

Rita  looked  out  over  the  lake  and  wondered  at  life.  It 
was  strange  the  way  your  own  feelings  were  tangled  with 
other  people's.  She  wanted  to  dance.  And  there  were 
many  better  dancers  than  Bobby.  But  Bobby  was  her 
beau,  and  she  had  her  duty  towards  him.  She  had  never 
wondered  so  before.  There  were  so  many  little  unhappi- 
nesses  that  could  find  their  way  even  to  her  birthday  party. 
Even  then,  when  for  the  first  time  in  her  twelve  years  she 
was  really  suffering,  she  wondered  at  the  fallacy  of  being 
unhappy.  It  irritated  her  that  she  could  not  be  so  sad  as 


PROLOGUE  13 

she  wished,  that  something  within  her  knew  how  slight  her 
suffering  really  was. 

They  were  so  engrossed  in  their  own  thoughts  that  they 
did  not  hear  the  creak  of  the  screen  door  when  Lilias  More- 
land  came  out.  For  a  moment  she  stood  looking  out  over 
the  lake,  her  melancholy  eyes  softened  in  the  moonlight,  her 
hips  swaying  slightly  with  the  music.  Her  lavender  dress 
billowed  about  her  ankles,  and  some  of  the  petals  from  the 
spray  of  hydrangea  blossom  she  had  dared  to  thrust  in 
her  dark  hair  beside  the  Spanish  comb  shivered  to  the 
piazza  floor.  As  she  saw  her  daughter  and  Bobby,  she 
laughed. 

"Naughty,  naughty,  Rita!  "  she  said  in  the  warm  voice 
that  always  thrilled  her  daughter.  "  Remember  you're  the 
hostess  and  you  mustn't  spoon  when  you  should  be  enter- 
taining. You  are  a  flirt,  in  spite  of  your  New  England 
father." 

For  a  moment  Rita  was  so  filled  with  pleasure  at  her 
mother's  voice  that  she  was  not  angry.  Lilias  lingered  over 
her  words,  as  though  she  found  beauty  in  every  syllable; 
she  gave  the  impression  of  drawling,  although  she  talked 
rather  quickly.  Rita  looked  at  her,  and  suddenly  her  face 
grew  dark. 

"I'm  not  flirting,  Mother,"  she  said.  "I'm—"  She 
looked  at  Bobby,  and  realized  that  he  would  not  want  her 
mother  to  know.  "  I'm  just  talking  to  Bobby." 

Her  mother's  laughter  seemed  to  ripple  the  lake,  as  it 
floated  off  the  piazza.  Rita  almost  expected  to  hear  it 
caught  in  the  dark  trees  on  the  farther  dusky  side,  and  blown 
back. 


I4  PROLOGUE 

"  Oh,  little  Rita!  "she  said.  "  If  you  must  stay  out  here, 
at  least  put  on  a  scarf.  It's  growing  cool." 

"Let's  dance,"  Bobby  whispered,  wiping  his  eyes  with 
the  back  of  his  hand. 

Rita  felt  suddenly  contrary.  "  I  don't  know  that  I  want 
to,  now,"  she  said,  laughing  at  him.  Then  she  saw  his 
bewildered  expression,  and  she  wondered  why  she  had  lied. 
"  'Course  I  do,"  she  contradicted  herself,  and  took  his  hot 
hand  in  hers. 

They  walked  into  the  living-room,  and  he  placed  his 
arm  about  her  waist  uncertainly.  As  they  started,  his 
frantic  hold  on  her  dress  loosened;  she  was  dancing  with 
him,  and  light  though  she  was,  he  had  no  fear  that  she  would 
float  away.  Bobby  compressed  his  lips,  and  thought  about 
his  feet. 

"  Not  quite  so  fast,"  Rita  whispered.  "  Listen,  now."  Her 
hand  on  his  arm  punctuated  the  beat  of  the  music  gently; 
for  a  few  steps  she  led  him,  but  so  lightly  that  Bobby  did 
not  realize  it.  His  boy  dignity  would  have  been  outraged, 
had  he  suspected.  He  merely  knew  that  by  some  luck  he  was 
not  stepping  on  his  partner's  feet,  and  that  dancing  with 
Rita  was  not  quite  so  objectionable  as  dancing  usually  was. 
He  felt  the  relief  that  came  in  dancing  school,  when  he  was 
Miss  Faith's  partner. 

More  than  one  pair  of  eyes  watched  the  two  children  as 
they  curved  about  the  room.  Ernest  Harvey  smiled  and 
waved,  as  they  passed  him,  and  Rita  waved  ,back.  Her 
mouth  was  curved  into  an  ecstatic  smile,  strangely  mature, 
and  absurd  before  the  tight,  determined  expression  of 
Bobby's  lips.  Lilias  Moreland,  at  Harvey's  side,  watched 


PROLOGUE  15 

them  with  mingled  feeling.  She  was  glad  that  Rita  was 
graceful,  that  she  danced  and  walked  and  carried  herself 
well.  If  Rita  had  not  been  her  daughter,  she  would  have 
felt  merely  jealousy.  As  it  was,  her  jealousy  was  mingled 
with  pride,  and  her  pride  with  resentment  that  her  twelve 
year  old  daughter  should  be  so  mature,  so  sure  of  herself. 
She  did  not  like  to  be  reminded  that  she  was  a  mother. 

Rita  danced  on,  unconscious  that  people  were  watching 
her.  She  had  danced  ever  since  she  had  walked,  and  there 
was  nothing  she  loved  so  much.  An  itinerant  Jew,  carry- 
ing bag-pipes,  always  plunged  her,  wherever  she  was,  into 
a  breathless  Highland  Fling;  a  hurdy-gurdy  set  her  feet  in 
motion  as  though  she  were  a  dancing  doll.  She  did  not  like 
church,  because  the  solemn  music  pouring  from  the  organ 
made  her  body  sway,  made  her  long  for  open  fields. 

A  few  weeks  before,  there  had  been  a  grown-up  dance  in 
the  Larchborough  house.  Lilias  had  allowed  Rita  to  sit  up 
to  "  fill  in  "  at  dinner.  She  had  worn  an  old  dancing  frock 
of  her  mother's,  shortened  and  tucked,  but  longer  than  her 
usual  dresses.  It  was  low  over  her  brown  neck,  and  flat, 
childish  breasts.  Her  mother,  laughing,  had  tucked  a 
crumpled  handkerchief  hi  the  bodice — "  so  that  you'll  have 
a  little  curve,"  she  had  said — and  Rita,  flushing,  shamed, 
had  jerked  it  out  and  stamped  upon  it.  But  she  had 
watched,  fascinated  while  Lilias  piled  her  red  hair  above  her 
childish  forehead.  She  was  tall  for  her  twelve  years — in 
the  last  year  she  had  shot  up  like  a  weed — and  big;  she  had 
looked,  half  frightened,  at  her  reflection  in  her  mother's 
pier-glass. 

At  dinner  she  mimicked  her  mother.    Her  green  eyes 


16  PROLOGUE 

opened  wide  as  she  turned  to  speak  to  the  man  beside  her; 
the  lashes  fell  slowly  while  she  listened  to  his  answer.  She 
was  suddenly  conscious  that  her  mother  was  half  jealous, 
and  the  realization  waked  the  feminine  in  her,  spurred  her 
to  be  more  charming.  She  had  tasted  the  wine  of  the  man 
next  to  her,  and  smiled  prettily  when  he  turned  the  glass  to 
drink  from  the  spot  her  lips  had  touched. 

When  the  dancing  began  and  more  people  arrived,  she 
was  never  without  a  partner.  She  smilingly  permitted  her- 
self to  be  torn  from  one  pair  of  masculine  arms  and  caught 
in  another,  because  there  were  more  partners  than  dances. 
Her  sophistication  at  the  dinner  table  had  been  a  well 
executed  mimicry  of  her  mother;  her  dancing  was  her  own, 
and  her  joy  in  it  came  partly  from  her  childishness. 

The  decanters  on  the  tea-wagon  had  been  twice  emptied, 
and  Rita  alone  saw  the  long,  dimly  lighted  room  as  it  really 
was.  She  did  not  know  that;  the  unusual  gaiety  of  the 
grown  people  seemed  to  her  the  normal  air  at  a  party.  At 
the  end  of  a  long  waltz,  her  partner,  a  man  well  over  forty, 
swayed,  and  leaned  towards  her,  as  his  arm  about  her  tight- 
ened. Rita  looked  up  at  his  face,  waiting  for  him  to  release 
her,  wondering  at  the  tight  expression  of  his  mouth.  He 
swayed  again,  and  as  Rita  wondered  why  he  did  not  let  her 
go,  her  mother  tore  her  suddenly  from  his  arms,  stood  be- 
tween them. 

Then  she  was  sent  upstairs  to  her  room.  It  was  another 
of  the  inexplicable  whims  of  grown  people.  In  her  room  she 
realized  that  she  was  sleepy,  and  took  up  her  teddy-bear, 
fell  asleep  with  his  furry  paw  resting  on  her  cheek.  She  was 
awakened  abruptly  when  her  mother  came  into  the  room. 


PROLOGUE  17 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  still  in  her 
evening  gown,  pressing  her  hot  cheek  against  Rita's  fore- 
head. Rita  had  smiled  at  her  sleepily;  her  cheeks  were 
almost  as  brilliant  as  her  scarlet  dress;  the  red  flower  had 
fallen  from  her  untidy  hair  and  was  caught  in  the  net  scarf 
about  her  shoulders.  The  red  had  blurred  on  her  lips,  and 
her  breath  was  hot  and  smelled  of  wine.  And  her  father 
had  come  to  the  door,  an  angular,  ungainly  figure  in  the 
ugly  nightshirt  his  wife  so  detested,  and  had  looked  at  them, 
smiling.  Rita  remembered  his  words.  "  After  all,  Lilias," 
he  had  said,  "  you  may  not  care,  but  I'm  damned  if  I'll  be  a 
father-in-law  to  any  of  your  lovers."  Her  mother  had 
shuddered,  and  leaned  farther  over  the  bed,  holding  her  so 
that  it  hurt. 

The  music  stopped,  and  Bobby's  arms  fell  limply  to  his 
sides. 

"  That  was  nice,"  said  Rita.  She  hesitated.  "  I'm  going 
over  to  see  Helen.  Is  your  next  dance  engaged?  " 

"  Don't  go.    I  don't  want  to  dance  with  her  now." 

"  I'm  going."  She  wondered  why  she  went,  as  she  hur- 
ried across  the  floor  to  where  the  little  girl  sat.  Helen  was 
fanning  herself  awkwardly,  and  Rita  felt  much  older  than 
she,  as  she  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  Bobby's  unhappy,"  she  said.  "  He  wants  you  to  dance 
with  him." 

"  All  right,"  said  Helen.    "  I  don't  care." 

"  Then  you'll  save  him  the  next  dance?  " 

"  I'd  just  as  soon." 

Rita  hurried  back  to  Bobby,  and  her  heart  was  both  heavy 


i8  PROLOGUE 

and  light.  "  She  wants  to  dance  with  you,"  she  said.  Then 
she  went  out  on  the  piazza. 

The  door  opened  and  her  father  came  out.  He  was  a 
tall  thin  man,  with  a  brownish  face,  lined  and  irregular.  He 
was  an  architect,  and  had  a  great  flat  desk  in  his  workroom, 
and  white  paper,  dozens  of  pencils,  and  a  sharpener  that 
made  points  on  dull  pencils.  He  was  busy  almost  all  the 
time,  and  made  a  great  deal  of  money.  He  had  designed 
the  Larchborough  house.  Rita  liked  to  watch  him,  but  her 
mother  did  not  want  her  to  go  in  his  workroom.  Rita  had 
tried  to  convince  her  that  Father  did  not  mind,  but  Lilias 
refused  to  be  convinced.  Sometimes  Rita  thought  her 
mother  knew  that  he  did  not  mind,  that  it  was  she  who  did 
not  want  her  to  be  there  with  her  father. 

Rita  could  never  make  up  her  mind,  though  her  mother 
constantly  asked  her,  which  she  loved  more,  him  or  Lilias. 
Lilias  thrilled  her;  she  loved  the  smell  of  her  perfumes,  the 
softness  of  her  breast,  her  voice,  her  swaying  body.  Her 
father  smelled  of  ink  and  musty  tobacco,  and  could  hold 
her  far  up  in  the  air  with  one  hand.  And  somehow  her 
father  understood  .  .  . 

"  Hello,"  he  said  quietly. 

Rita  sighed.    "  Oh,  Father!  "  she  said. 

He  sat  beside  her. 

"  Father,  why  don't  you  ever  ask  me  why  I'm  doing  what 
I  am?  " 

He  smiled  gently  at  her.  His  smile  was  not  like  her 
mother's;  it  did  not  show  his  teeth,  nor  make  wrinkles  about 
his  eyes,  but  it  was  pleasant,  too.  "  Why  you're  not  inside, 
you  mean?  " 


PROLOGUE  19 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to?  " 

Rita  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  I  like  you  'cause  you 
don't,"  she  said,  and  pulled  herself  closer  to  him  on  the 
railing.  "  Father,  do  people  ever  have  what  they  want?  " 

Webster  Moreland  smiled  again.  "  The  pity  of  it  is  that 
they  do,"  he  said. 

Rita  pondered.  "  The  pity  .  .  .  You  mean  it  was 
nicer  when  they  only  wanted?  " 

"  Yes." 

They  were  quiet  again;  then,  gently,  Rita  put  her  hand 
on  her  father's  shoulder  and  leaned  her  face  towards  his 
coat  sleeve.  She  was  an  undemonstrative  child,  and  he 
started  a  little  at  her  touch. 

"  I'm  sorry,  dear,"  she  whispered. 

He  knew  that  she  did  not  understand,  and  he  was  glad. 
"  Rita,  the  thing  that  saves  people  is  a  sense  of  humor," 
he  said  gravely.  "  And  God,  I  don't  know  but  that  makes 
them  unhappier." 

"  I  know,"  Rita  said.  Her  father  had  smiled  when  he 
came  into  her  room  that  night.  "Like  tonight.  He  wanted 
to  dance  with  her,  and  I  was  unhappy.  Only  I  couldn't  be 
comfortably  unhappy  because — well,  it's  funny,  Father,  to 
be  unhappy  when  you're  only  twelve." 

"  Yes."  He  smiled  again.  "  Rita,  do  you  think  it's 
funny  to  be  unhappy  when  you're  only  forty?  " 

Rita  considered.  "  Of  course  forty's  pretty  old,"  she 
said.  "  But  isn't  it  funny  to  be  unhappy  ever?  I  mean — 
don't  you  always  feel  as  if  when  you  were  grown-up — ?  " 

"  I  guess  you  should."    He  got  up  abruptly,  and  went 


20  PROLOGUE 

down  the  steps.  Rita  watched  him.  She  knew  that  he  was 
going  on  another  of  those  long  walks  that  kept  him  out  all 
night  and  part  of  the  next  day,  when  he  would  return,  take 
a  dip  in  the  lake,  and  settle  down  to  work.  It  was  neuritis, 
her  mother  said. 

"Rita!  " 

She  went  into  the  house  quickly.  Her  mother  was  talk- 
ing with  Ernest  Harvey. 

"  Where  have  you  been?  " 

"  Talking  to  Father." 

Ernest  Harvey  laughed.  "  She  is  a  clever  child,"  he  baid. 
"  I  didn't  know  it  could  be  done." 

Rita  looked  at  him  with  sudden  disapproval ;  for  the  first 
time  she  realized  that  he  did  not  like  her  father.  But  that 
was  because  he  was  her  mother's  friend,  of  course.  She  was 
the  only  person  who  loved  them  both  and  was  loved  in 
return.  She  sighed  and  looked  up  at  Lilias. 

"The  children  are  going  now,"  she  said.  "You  must 
say  good-bye  to  them." 

"  Yes,  Mother." 

After  they  had  gone,  Annie  put  her  to  bed,  and  she  fell 
asleep  quickly ;  it  was  eleven  o'clock.  And  again  her  mother 
woke  her  by  coming  to  her  room. 

"  I'm  going  to  sleep  with  you  tonight,"  she  said. 

Rita  smiled  sleepily  from  her  pillow.  "  I'm  awfully  glad." 
She  watched  her  mother  unfasten  her  earrings,  take  down 
her  hair.  "  Father's  gone  walking." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Her  mother  turned  suddenly  from  the 
mirror  and  stared  at  Rita.  "  What  do  you  mean?  What's 
that  got  to  do  with  anything?  " 


PROLOGUE  21 

"Why,  nothing,"  Rita  said.  She  lay,  looking  at  the 
ceiling,  wondering  what  her  mother  had  thought  she  meant. 
She  was  sleepy,  and  glad  when  her  mother  turned  out  the 
light  and  crept  into  bed  beside  her. 

"  Rita!  " 

"  Yes,  Mother." 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  beautiful?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mother." 

"  Do  I  look  old?  " 

"  Mother!     Of  course  not." 

"  I'll  be  forty  my  next  birthday."  Her  voice  was  sad, 
and  Rita  rolled  over  and  cuddled  her  head  against  her 
mother's  breast.  "  It's  so  sweet  and  comfy  to  be  with  you," 
she  said.  She  picked  up  her  mother's  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Now  you  must  go  to  sleep,  dear." 

She  kissed  her  obediently,  and  curled  into  a  ball,  one  arm 
above  her  head.  But  she  did  not  go  to  sleep.  Her  mother's 
breathing  was  uneven,  choked,  and  Rita  lay  listening  for  a 
long  time.  She  was  not  sure  whether  she  had  fallen  asleep 
or  not,  but  she  was  roused  suddenly  by  hearing  the  door 
open. 

First  Mr.  Harvey's  head  appeared;  then  his  whole  body. 
His  pajamas  were  pongee,  and  his  pongee  dressing-gown  was 
edged  with  scarlet. 

"  Lilias!  "  he  whispered. 

Rita  knew  that  her  mother  was  asleep,  but  at  the  sound 
of  her  name,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  sat  up.  She  looked 
first  at  Rita,  who  closed  her  eyes  quickly,  and  then  at  the 
man.  Her  nightgown  slipped  from  one  shoulder.  Rita 
stared  at  her. 


22  PROLOGUE 

"  Go  away!  "    Lilias  whispered. 

"  Lilias—" 

"  You  must  go  away!  " 

He  looked  at  her  strangely.  As  Rita  peered  at  him  from 
beneath  the  covers,  he  was  unlike  the  Ernest  Harvey  she 
had  known.  "  Then  kiss  me,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  Lilias  hesitated.  "  If  you'll  go,"  she  said 
finally. 

Mr.  Harvey  stepped  nearer  and  put  his  arms  about  her 
shoulders,  leaned  over  her.  "  Oh,  Ernest!  "  she  whispered. 
Rita  did  not  breathe ;  she  closed  her  eyes  tightly.  Then  sud- 
denly the  door  closed.  Her  mother's  head  had  sunk  to  the 
pillow.  Rita  choked,  and  she  felt  the  contraction  of  her 
mother's  body,  as  she  raised  herself  on  one  elbow. 

"Rita!  » 

Rita  breathed  softly,  deep  in  the  bed  clothes. 

"  Rita,  are  you  awake?  " 

Her  mother  sighed,  and  turned  toward  the  opposite  side 
of  the  bed.  As  she  moved,  her  hand  fell  to  her  side,  and 
touched  her  daughter's  leg.  Rita  shuddered  and  drew  away 
from  her;  she  lay  rigid,  stiff,  her  eyes  wide  open,  listening 
to  her  mother's  breathing. 

V 

Mr.  Harvey  had  gone  back  to  New  York. 

Rita  crouched  on  the  couch  in  the  living-room,  waiting, 
listening.  Her  mother  and  father  were  in  the  library,  and 
the  door  was  locked.  Once  she  heard  her  mother  sob. 
Then  the  hum  of  voices  again. 

Outside,  it  was  a  gorgeous  day.    Fall  was  beginning,  and 


PROLOGUE  23 

there  was  a  new  strength  and  wildness  to  everything.  The 
flowers,  the  leaves,  the  marshes  that  stretched  out  on  one 
side  of  the  lake,  were  more  brilliant;  the  sky  was  so  blue  that 
it  hurt  Rita's  eyes  to  look  at  it.  It  was  the  sort  of  day 
that  made  her  want  to  dance  and  fling  up  her  arms,  to  run 
over  the  grass  until  she  fell  and  pressed  her  face  on  the 
fragrant  earth.  There  were  nuts  and  apples,  and  if  you  went 
in  the  automobile  to  Larchborough  Center,  you  could  buy 
cider. 

But  the  atmosphere  within  the  house  was  stronger  than 
without;  it  was  terrible  and  fascinating.  Rita  crouched 
down  and  waited. 

Finally  they  came  out,  and  her  mother  sat  down  on  the 
couch  beside  her.  Rita  allowed  her  to  put  her  arms  about 
her ;  she  held  up  her  face  patiently  to  her  mother's  kiss. 

"  Web,  dear,"  her  mother  said. 

Rita  looked  at  him  quickly.  His  smile  was  a  really  pleas- 
ant one;  he  did  not  seem  to  think  it  was  funny  that  Lilias 
should  call  him  "  Web,  dear." 

"  Yes,  Lilias?  " 

"  Don't  work  today.  Let's  take  the  car  and  go  driving. 
Annie  will  put  up  luncheon,  and  you  and  Rita  and  I  can 
have  a  picnic  at  Crewe's  beach." 

"  All  right." 

Her  mother  went  into  the  kitchen;  Rita  pretended  to  read 
her  book,  but  she  was  watching  her  father.  He  hummed 
as  he  took  his  sweater  from  the  closet  beside  the  fire- 
place, found  his  cap.  She  heard  her  mother  moving  about 
upstairs;  when  she  came  down  she  was  in  white,  crisp  and 
clean.  She  wore  an  old  red  coat,  belted  loosely. 


24  PROLOGUE 

"Lilias!"  Webster  Moreland  smiled  at  her.  "I 
thought  you'd  thrown  that  coat  out  years  ago!  " 

"  Uh-huh?  "  Her  mother  threw  him  one  of  the  smiles 
that  she  usually  kept  for  dinner  parties  or  dances.  She 
sang  softly  as  she  went  over  to  the  mirror,  and  stood,  tying 
her  black  hair  with  a  ribbon.  Webster  went  towards  her 
slowly;  pulled  her  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  Web!"    Lilias  said. 

Rita  began  to  laugh  hysterically. 


CHAPTER  TWO 


WEBSTER  MORELAND  came  home  to  Larchborough  in  the 
summer  of  1897,  and  found  Lilias  Carr,  from  the  South, 
visiting  some  Larchborough  people.  He  was  as  surprised 
and  dazzled  by  her  as  was  all  the  New  England  she  was 
visiting  for  the  first  time.  She  was  beautiful,  with  all  the 
warmth  and  color  of  mixed  blood,  and  there  was  a  freedom, 
a  lack  of  restraint  about  her,  that  made  people  wonder  if 
she  was  "  quite  nice  ".  She  showed  a  generous  length  of 
silk  stockings  when  she  sat  down;  her  evening  gowns  were 
low  over  a  curving  white  neck  and  bosom. 

Her  interest  in  Web  Moreland  developed  into  an  amazing 
interest  in  architecture;  she  surprised  the  school  friend  she 
was  visiting  by  her  knowledge  of  Colonial  houses.  She 
talked  with  just  enough  smattering  of  technicalities  to  make 
Webster  Moreland  think  she  knew  a  great  deal  more,  and 
to  flatter  him  by  the  way  she  accepted  his  statements. 

They  were  engaged  at  the  end  of  the  summer,  and  in 
the  early  autumn  they  were  married  and  went  to  New  York 
for  the  winter. 

Webster  Moreland  was  disappointed  in  his  bride.  She 
was  lovely ;  in  every  way  she  was  all  that  a  man  could  desire. 
But  she  was  not  what  he  had  been  trained  to  imagine. 
There  was  less  winning  to  do  than  he  had  expected,  no  sud- 

25 


26  PROLOGUE 

den  waves  of  shyness  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms.  She 
lifted  her  mouth  squarely  to  his  kisses,  and  he  had  expected 
to  raise  her  head  with  a  tender  hand.  It  was  his  fault  that 
he  was  disappointed  in  her,  but  unconsciously  he  blamed  her 
because  she  did  not  personify  his  ideals  of  woman,  and  Lilias 
realized  that  he  was  dissatisfied. 

"  You  know,  Web,  you  want  me  to  be  constantly  sur- 
prised that  you  love  me,"  she  said  one  day.  "  You  want 
to  do  all  the  deciding  yourself.  I  can't  kiss  you  until  you 
kiss  me.  I'm  supposed  to  be  like  a  fiddle  that  never  sings 
until  your  fingers  play  on  it." 

"  That  isn't  so,"  he  denied  quickly.  "  I  love  to  have  you 
come  up  behind  me  when  I'm  working  and  kiss  me.  I  like 
to  feel  that  you  love  me  as  much  as  I  love  you." 

But  he  did  not,  and  they  both  knew  it.  He  wanted  her 
to  be  passive,  with  a  passivity  that  could  be  awakened  to 
fire  by  his  least  wish.  He  did  not  like  to  be  made  conscious 
of  her  love  unless  he  was  in  a  mood  for  love-making. 
And  he  took  his  love-making  seriously;  he  could  not  look 
up  from  his  work  and  kiss  her  and  return  to  his  drawing. 
There  were  times  for  work  and  times  for  love,  and  Webster 
Moreland  wanted  them  distinctly  separated.  It  was  partly 
that  he  had  idealized  love,  and  did  not  wish  it  soiled  by 
thoughts  of  work,  and  partly  that  he  did  not  want  his  work 
interrupted. 

Lilias  tried  to  understand  his  feelings,  but  she  found  it 
impossible.  And  she  could  not  learn  to  be  merely  an  in- 
strument upon  which  his  moods  might  play. 

"  The  days  are  so  long,  Web,"  she  complained.  "  You 
have  your  work,  and  I  have  nothing.  I  don't  take  care  of 


PROLOGUE  27 

your  house — I  have  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  you.  If 
only  I  could  work  with  you!  " 

"  What  did  you  do  before  we  were  married?  "  he  asked. 

Lilias  smiled.  "  Why,  I  suppose  I  was  getting  me  a 
husband,"  she  said  frankly,  and  did  not  know  how  her 
words  jarred  him.  "  I  was  planning  clothes  that  made 
me  attractive  and  going  about  where  I  could  meet  men." 

Rita  was  born  the  first  year  of  their  marriage,  and  Lilias, 
lying  white  and  ill  on  the  bed,  looked  up  at  her  husband 
and  said  that  she  would  never  have  another  child.  He 
looked  at  her  as  though  she  had  said  something  blasphemous. 
Again  she  had  fallen  short  of  his  demands.  He  had  expected 
to  see  her  rosy  and  happy,  her  eyes  shining  with  admiration 
and  wonder.  He  did  not  take  into  consideration  that  she 
was  weak  and  tired,  that  perhaps  later  she  would  change 
her  mind. 

She  was  tender  and  amused  when  they  brought  her  daugh- 
ter to  her. 

"  What  a  funny  little  red-headed  thing!  "  she  said.  "  Do 
they  all  look  as  bad  as  that?  "  She  found  no  answer  to  her 
smile  in  her  husband's  eyes.  He  held  the  baby  in  his  arms, 
and  looked  at  his  wife  disapprovingly.  Then  he  gave  the 
baby  to  the  arms  of  the  nurse  and  went  downstairs  into 
the  library  without  a  word. 

Lilias  watched  him  weakly,  and  then  turned  to  look  at 
her  daughter.  She  had  not  wanted  a  child,  but  Webster 
had  been  so  horrified,  that  she  had  surrendered  her  will  to 
his,  and  become  even  glad  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  mother. 
It  had  been  hard  for  her;  for  several  months  she  had  not 
been  able  to  leave  her  bedroom.  Her  husband  had  been 


28  PROLOGUE 

tender  and  proud,  and  while  they  talked  of  the  child — they 
had  wanted  a  son — Lilias  had  forgotten  her  discomfort.  But 
now  .  .  . 

"  Please  take  her  away,"  she  said  gently,  as  the  nurse 
came  towards  her.    "  I  want  to  go  to  sleep." 


CHAPTER  THREE 


HER  mother  and  father  had  gone  abroad,  and  Rita  was 
spending  the  winter  in  Boston  with  her  aunt  and  uncle. 
They  were  not  really  her  aunt  and  uncle,  but  she  had  called 
them  that  ever  since  she  could  remember.  Aunt  Helen  had 
known  Mother  when  they  were  both  little  girls,  and  Uncle 
Dick  and  Father  had  been  in  college  together. 

There  were  three  children;  the  twins,  Peter  and  Ruthie, 
who  were  three  years  younger  than  Rita,  and  Donald,  who 
was  three  years  older.  They  were  all  at  school  when  Lilias 
brought  Rita  to  the  house,  and  when  they  came  back  they 
found  her  in  the  nursery.  Rita  looked  up  from  the  castle 
she  was  building  with  the  twins'  blocks,  and  saw  them  peer- 
ing at  her  from  behind  Aunt  Helen's  skirts.  The  twins  were 
rosy,  brown-haired  children,  with  round  mouths  and  eyes. 
Rita  wanted  to  start  immediately  pretending  that  she  was 
their  mother.  Donald  Wells  was  tall,  almost  as  tall  as  his 
mother,  and  broad;  his  hair  was  fair,  and  he  had  pleasant 
gray  eyes. 

While  Rita  stared,  the  three  children  stared,  too.  They 
saw  a  girl,  tall  and  white,  in  a  short  black  velvet  dress,  with 
long  thin  legs  in  black  silk  stockings.  Her  red  hair  hung 
almost  to  her  waist,  and  her  eyebrows  were  thick  and  black. 

"  She  has  green  eyes,"  Peter  whispered  to  Ruthie. 

29 


30  PROLOGUE 

"  Hush!  "  said  Donald. 

"  These  are  your  cousins,"  Aunt  Helen  said,  smiling. 
"  Now,  children,  play  together  and  don't  quarrel.  I'm  going 
downstairs." 

The  twins  stood  shyly  by  the  door,  staring  at  Rita. 

"  Those  are  our  blocks,"  Peter  said,  and  was  overcome 
with  shyness. 

"  What  are  you  making? "  asked  Donald.  He  came 
nearer,  and  stood,  looking  down  at  her. 

"  A  castle,"  Rita  said.  "  They're  nice  blocks.  I  never 
had  any." 

"  She  can  have  half  of  ours,  can't  she? "  Ruthie 
whispered  to  Peter,  who  shook  his  head  indignantly.  "  Well, 
you  can  have  half  of  mine,  Rita." 

"  She  can  have  'em  all  if  she  wants,"  said  Donald  author- 
itatively. 

"  I  just  want  to  play  with  them  sometimes,"  said  Rita. 
"  I'm  really  too  old  for  blocks." 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  Donald  asked. 

"  Twelve." 

"  I'm  fifteen.    I'm  studying  Latin." 

"  I've  studied  Latin,"  Rita  said.    "  With  a  tutor." 

Donald  looked  at  her  curiously.    "  What  Latin?  " 

"  Cssar." 

He  opened  his  school-bag  and  turned  the  pages  of  a 
worn  black  book.  "  Can  you  read  this?  " 

Rita  smiled.  "  That's  mean,"  she  said.  "  You  know  he 
always  builds  bridges  in  the  subjunctive!  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  again.  "  What  grade  are  you 
in?" 


PROLOGUE  31 

"  I've  never  been  to  a  regular  school — I  had  a  tutor  at 
home.  Mother  says  I  can  go  to  school  this  winter." 

"  It's  not  much  fun." 

The  twins  sat  down  on  the  floor,  and  rattled  the  blocks 
impatiently.  "  Let's  make  a  walled  city,"  said  Ruthie. 

"  All  right,"  said  Rita. 

"  I'm  going  to  play,  too,  today,"  Donald  said.  "  I'll  be 
the  contractor  and  you're  my  workmen."  He  sat  down  on 
the  floor  beside  Rita.  "  This  rug  will  be  an  island,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  floor  is  ocean.  You  start  on  the  wall,  Ruthie 
and  Pete.  She  can  help  with  the  castle." 

*'  The  round  blocks  can  be  watch  towers,"  Rita  said. 

The  twins  looked  up  at  her.  "  We  never  use  them  for 
that,"  explained  Ruthie. 

"  You  can  today,"  said  Donald.  "  There  ought  to  be 
watch  towers  to  look  out  over  the  sea  for  pirates." 

The  city  was  almost  finished,  when  a  bell  rang  downstairs. 
Donald  ran  into  the  hall.  "  Mother,  we're  building  such  a 
fine  city.  Can't  we  leave  the  blocks  on  the  floor  tonight?  " 

"Just  tonight,  then,"  called  Aunt  Helen.  "  Because  it's 
Friday." 

Rita  wondered  what  that  had  to  do  with  it,  but  she  was 
silent.  Donald  and  the  twins  began  piling  up  the  blocks 
that  were  not  in  use  in  the  city;  the  nursery  was  in  order 
when  a  second  bell  rang. 

"  We've  got  to  wash  now,"  Ruthie  explained.  "  It's 
supper." 

"But  it's  only  six  o'clock,"  said  Rita,  looking  at  her  gold 
wrist- watch. 

The  twins  stared  at  her  again. 


32  PROLOGUE 

"  We  have  supper  at  six,"  Donald  said.  "  When  do  you 
have  it?" 

"  Half-past  seven." 

"We  have  to  go  to  bed  at  seven,"  said  Peter,  and  was 
again  overcome  with  embarrassment. 

"  I  can  sit  up  till  nine  because  I'm  fifteen,"  Donald  said. 
"  Maybe  you  can,  too." 

They  hurried  into  the  bathroom.  Above  the  towel-racks 
were  printed  bits  of  cardboard  bearing  each  child's  name; 
one  of  them  said  "  Rita  "  on  it.  Donald  pointed  it  out  to 
her.  Finally  they  went  downstairs  into  the  dining-room. 

Rita  shook  hands  with  Uncle  Dick  Wells  and  sat  be- 
tween him  and  Donald.  The  twins  were  side  by  side  at 
the  other  end  of  the  table;  Aunt  Helen  faced  her  husband. 
Rita  watched,  fascinated,  while  he  carved  the  roast ;  at  home 
it  was  carved  in  the  kitchen.  There  were  bowls  of  jelly  and 
stewed  corn  and  muffins.  Rita  liked  the  food  better  than 
anything  she  had  at  home.  For  dessert,  Aunt  Helen  and 
Uncle  Dick  had  pie,  and  the  four  children  had  apple-sauce. 
There  was  a  large  pitcher  of  cream,  and  plenty  of  powdered 
sugar. 

"  Does  she  stay  up  till  nine?  "  asked  Donald. 

Aunt  Helen  looked  thoughtful.  "  What  time  do  you  go  to 
bed  at  home,  Rita?  " 

"  I  used  to  go  at  half-past  eight,"  answered  Rita,  "  but 
since  I've  been  twelve,  I've  stayed  up  till  'most  any  time. 
We  had  a  man  at  the  house  this  summer,  and  Mother  wanted 
me  at  dinner  so  there'd  be  someone  to  talk  to  Father." 

Uncle  Dick  choked. 

"  Why  doesn't  she  talk  to  Father?  "  asked  Ruthie. 


PROLOGUE  33 

"  Hush,  Ruthie!  "  said  Aunt  Helen. 

"  She  doesn't  like  him,"  Rita  said. 

There  was  a  sudden  silence. 

"  At  least,"  Rita  continued,  "  I  guess  she  likes  him  now. 
She  didn't  used  to." 

"  Isn't  he  nice?  "  asked  Donald. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he's  lovely.  So  is  Mother,  but  they  like  dif- 
ferent things." 

"  Did  the  man  at  dinner  like  the  same  things  your  mother 
likes?  "  asked  Ruthie. 

"Hush!"  Aunt  Helen  said  again.  After  dinner,  she 
called  Rita  to  her.  The  twins  and  Donald  were  talking  with 
their  father. 

"  Rita  dear,"  she  began.  "  I — you  know  that  I  love  your 
mother  very  dearly,  don't  you?  " 

Rita  did  not  know  it,  but  she  nodded. 

"  I — I  don't  want  you  to  talk  to  the  children  about  your 
mother  and  father,"  Aunt  Helen  said.  "  I  mean — " 

Rita  flushed.    Her  face  was  hot,  and  she  wanted  to  hide. 

"  I  don't  quite  mean  that,"  said  Aunt  Helen.  Her  voice 
sounded  as  though  she  were  going  to  cry.  Rita  put  out  her 
hand  and  touched  her  arm. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  For  a  moment  her 
eyes  that  were  green  like  her  father's,  had  the  melancholy 
softness  of  her  mother's  eyes.  "  I  know,"  she  repeated. 

"  Rita!  "  Donald  called.  "  Come  on  over.  Dad's  going 
to  tell  us  a  story  before  the  kids  go  to  bed." 

Rita  looked  at  her  aunt  questioningly,  and  Aunt  Helen 
leaned  over,  with  a  strange,  choking  noise,  and  caught  her 
in  her  arms.  Aunt  Helen  did  not  smell  of  perfume  as  her 


34  PROLOGUE 

mother  did;  there  was  a  fragrance  of  clean  linen  and  soap 
about  her.  "  Run  along,  darling,"  she  said.  Rita  wondered 
why  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

She  sat  down  on  the  floor  beside  Donald,  and  looked 
about  the  room  as  Uncle  Dick  began  to  talk.  It  was  not 
so  pretty  as  her  mother's  living-room,  but  she  liked  it  better. 
The  chairs  were  lumpier  and  more  worn,  and  there  were 
more  books,  some  that  looked  very  old.  Rita  stared  at 
Donald  and  the  twins.  They  accepted  her  as  another  child; 
they  thought  that  all  children  were  like  them.  She  looked 
up  at  Uncle  Dick,  smiling  as  he  talked. 

She  felt  suddenly  that  she  hated  her  mother. 

II 

In  the  morning,  after  her  first  night  in  Boston,  Rita  woke 
up  early.  She  liked  her  room;  it  was  large  and  square,  and 
the  sunlight  came  in  through  the  window.  The  house  was 
still;  then  downstairs  she  heard  the  cook  starting  the  fire  in 
the  stove.  She  lay  quietly,  listening,  looking  about  her. 

Aunt  Helen  came  in  and  smiled.  "  Good-morning,  dar- 
ling." 

"  Good-morning,  Aunt  Helen."  She  lifted  her  face  for  her 
kiss. 

Aunt  Helen  was  not  in  negligee;  she  was  dressed  in  brown 
gingham  like  the  twins'  clothes,  and  her  hair  was  smooth  and 
shiny.  She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "  I'm  glad 
you're  here  with  us,  Rita,"  she  said.  "  I've  always  wanted 
to  know  you.  You're  my  only  niece — and  -not  a  really,  truly 
niece  at  that." 


PROLOGUE  35 

"  I'd  forgotten  I  had  an  aunt  at  all,"  Rita  said.  "  Of 
course  at  Christmas,  you  and  Uncle  Dick  always  sent  me 
presents." 

Aunt  Helen  smiled  again.  "  I'm  glad  you're  going  to  be 
with  us  here  this  Christmas,"  she  said. 

The  day  that  started  so  pleasantly  did  not  disappoint 
her.  It  was  Saturday,  and  although  Uncle  Dick  had  to  go 
to  his  office,  the  children  did  not  have  to  go  to  school.  In 
the  morning,  they  finished  the  walled  city,  and  then  Peter 
and  Ruthie  pretended  that  they  were  an  earthquake  and 
shook  it  to  the  floor.  Uncle  Dick  returned  for  luncheon, 
and  was  very  gay  and  laughing  at  the  head  of  the 
table. 

"  Saturday  afternoon  belongs  to  Dad  and  Mother,"  Don- 
ald explained  to  Rita.  "  But  tomorrow  is  all  ours.  You 
just  wait,  Rita  Moreland!  " 

Rita  waited  impatiently.  But  waiting  did  not  prevent 
her  from  roller-skating  along  the  river-side  in  the  afternoon 
with  Donald;  helping  Esther,  the  colored  cook,  make  cin- 
namon toast  for  tea;  reading  a  fairy-tale  to  the  twins  and 
Donald — they  had  already  discovered  that  she  could  read 
aloud  almost  as  well  as  their  mother;  pretending  that  she 
was  a  captive  queen  in  a  gilt  crown  and  a  yellow  silk  dress, 
while  the  twins  were  the  royal  children,  and  Donald,  the 
pirate,  with  black  whiskers;  being  shamefully  beaten  at 
dominoes  by  all  three  children;  and  finally  being  tucked 
into  bed  by  Aunt  Helen,  prettier  than  Rita  had  ever  seen 
her,  in  a  pink  evening  dress. 

On  Sunday  morning,  although  she  had  been  expecting  to 
wake  up  early,  Donald  found  Rita  asleep  when  he  came  into 


36  PROLOGUE 

her  room.  He  stood  by  her  bed,  looking  at  her,  until  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  drowsily. 

"  We  all  go  into  Mother's  room,"  he  said.    "  Come  along." 

Rita  pushed  her  bare  feet  into  her  slippers,  pulled 
her  bathrobe  about  her,  and  followed  him  through  the 
hall. 

Aunt  Helen's  room  was  large,  with  white  paint  and  yellow 
paper.  There  were  dozens  of  pictures  of  the  three  chil- 
dren, from  the  first  baby  pictures  to  a  group  of  them  with 
Uncle  Dick  that  had  been  taken  only  a  short  time  before. 
The  twins  were  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  wide  bed,  looking 
at  the  picture  pages  of  the  Sunday  papers.  Uncle  Dick  was 
propped  up  by  three  pillows,  reading  the  news  sections,  and 
Aunt  Helen  read  over  his  shoulder.  She  held  out  her  arms 
to  Rita,  who  sat  b.eside  her,  contented  and  sleepy.  Donald 
climbed  beside  his  father,  who  pulled  his  nose  absently  and 
went  on  reading. 

"The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things,  Dick," 
Aunt  Helen  said,  looking  over  his  shoulder. 

Uncle  Dick  smiled  and  grunted.  Finally  he  pushed  the 
papers  away,  leaned  over,  and  seized  one  of  the  twins  in 
either  hand,  rolled  them  over,  and  off  to  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  Daddy,  do  it  again!  "  Ruthie  said,  climbing  up 
breathlessly. 

Uncle  Dick  sat  up  in  bed  and  seized  her,  held  her  high 
in  the  air.  "  Well,  young  woman,  what  shall  we  do  today?  " 
he  asked,  tossing  her  up  and  down. 

Ruthie  screamed  unintelligibly. 

"  Let's  go  to  Franklin  Park  and  see  the  elephants,"  said 
Peter. 


PROLOGUE  37 

"  No,  let's  go  to  the  country  and  get  nuts  and  eat  'em," 
Ruthie  said. 

"  Dad!  "  Donald  clutched  the  sleeve  of  his  father's 
pajamas.  "  Dad,  Rita  has  never  seen  Paul  Revere's  house 
or  the  church  where  he  hung  the  lanterns  or  Fanueil  Hall 
or  the  graveyard  where  Mother  Goose  is  buried  or  anything. 
Let's  go  there." 

"Heavens!  "  said  Uncle  Dick.  "I  can  be  in  only  one 
place  at  once.  What  do  you  say,  Rita?  " 

Rita  cuddled  shyly  closer  to  Aunt  Helen.  "  Oh,  I'd  love 
to  do  anything  you  want  to,"  she  said,  and  laughed  as  Uncle 
Dick  dropped  Ruthie  with  a  thump,  and  lifted  her  from 
Aunt  Helen's  side,  high  in  his  two  hands. 

"  I  know  what  let's  do,"  Aunt  Helen  said.  "  Let's  get 
breakfast.  I'm  hungry  as  a  bear." 

"  We  have  waffles  on  Sunday,"  said  Peter.  "  And  lots  of 
maple  syrup." 

"  Quick!  "  said  Aunt  Helen.    "  Attention!  " 

Rita  climbed  out  of  bed  and  stood  in  line  with  the  others. 

"  Let's  see  who'll  be  dressed  first.  Twins,  I'll  give  you 
your  bath  because  you're  slowest.  Rita,  first  in  the  other 
bathroom,  then  Donald.  Hustle!  " 

They  scampered  off  in  different  directions,  and  as  Rita 
closed  the  door  of  the  bathroom  behind  her,  she  heard  Uncle 
Dick  laughing.  Oh,  it  was  so  pleasant  to  be  part  of  a  family ! 
Rita  was  so  happy  that  she  cried  softly  for  a  moment  before 
her  bath  was  ready.  Then  she  remembered  that  they  were 
racing,  and  hurried  through  her  bath,  pattered  into  her  own 
room. 

"  I'm  dressed,"  screamed  Donald.    "  Hi,  Rita!  " 


38  PROLOGUE 

Rita  came  out  into  the  hall,  buttoning  her  dress,  and 
waved  to  him  as  he  slid  down  the  banisters. 

"  You're  bigger'n  we  are,"  said  Peter.    "  Thart's  no  fair." 

"  Pete,  you're  slow,"  Uncle  Dick  called.  "  Why,  even  an 
old  man  like  me,  with  much  more  height,  and  breadth  to 
cover,  can  beat  you!  " 

"His  buttons  are  harder!  "  Ruthie  defended  him. 

Finally  they  were  all  downstairs.  Aunt  Helen  sat  at  her 
end  of  the  table,  pouring  coffee  and  tall  glasses  of  milk  for 
the  four  children,  buttering  the  toast  that  turned  from  white 
to  golden  on  the  electric  toaster.  Sunday  morning  break- 
fast was  a  feast;  Rita  thought  of  her  mother's  iced  half 
grapefruit  and  cup  of  black  coffee,  and  pitied  her  intensely. 
There  were  apple  sauce  and  soft  boiled  eggs  and  toast;  then 
there  were  more  waffles  than  you  could  eat,  and  a  pitcher 
as  tall  as  the  milk  pitcher  of  maple  syrup.  "  From  Grand- 
mother's in  Vermont,"  Donald  explained. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  to  be?  "  asked  Uncle  Dick,  taking  his 
fourth  waffle.  "  Nuts — animals — or  history?  " 

"  Rita  must  choose,"  said  Aunt  Helen. 

Rita  flushed.  Then  she  turned  towards  Donald  and 
smiled.  "  I  would  like  to  see  the  house  where  Paul  Revere 
lived,  and  the  church  where  he  hung  one  if  by  land  and  two 
if  by  sea,"  she  said. 

"  Personally  conducted  history  class  it  shall  be,"  said 
Uncle  Dick.  "  Nuts  and  wild  animals  deferred  until  next 
Sunday." 

"  Or  perhaps  this  afternoon,  Dick,"  said  Aunt  Helen. 

Uncle  Dick  looked  at  her  severely.  "  Helen,  how  can 
you  spoil  my  little  surprises?  "  he  demanded. 


PROLOGUE  39 

"  Great  minds — "  said  Aunt  Helen,  and  blew  him  a  kiss 
across  the  table. 

And  so  it  was  both.  In  the  morning  they  traipsed  from 
the  grave  of  Mother  Goose  to  the  home  of  Paul  Revere 
and  the  Old  North  Church;  then  hurriedly  back  to  the 
house  in  Louisburg  Square  to  pick  up  the  luncheon  that 
Esther  had  packed  and  climb  into  the  car. 

Donald  pulled  up  a  twelve-inch  fir  tree  in  the  woods  and 
brought  it  home  to  plant  in  the  yard;  the  twins  each  filled 
a  basket  with  nuts;  Peter  chattered  excitedly  about  the 
animals.  Rita  was  silent,  but  she  smiled  constantly  at  them 
all. 

Oh,  it  was  good  to  belong  to  a  family! 

Ill 

"  Mother  says  we  can  go!  "  Donald  said,  rushing  up  to 
the  nursery. 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad,"  said  Rita.  She  hurried  to  her  room, 
and  put  on  her  hat  and  coat. 

When  they  closed  the  door  of  the  house  behind  them,  the 
whole  world  seemed  to  stretch  out,  to  call  to  them.  For  a 
moment  they  stood  looking  before  them.  Louisburg  Square 
was  wrapped  in  snow;  it  lay  in  heavy  masses,  caught  in 
the  branches  of  the  trees  as  though  pieces  of  cloud  had  blown 
down  and  become  tangled.  The  snow  hung  and  dripped  like 
stiffly  beaten  white-of-egg  from  the  eaves  of  the  houses; 
it  was  banked  in  solid  walls  on  either  side  of  the  pavements 
— sheets  of  glazed  ice  with  pink  bricks  shining  through. 

Hand  in  hand,  the  two  children  wound  their  way  through 


40  PROLOGUE 

the  crooked  streets,  climbed  Chestnut  Street  and  came  out 
beside  the  State-house. 

"  Let's  run,"  said  Donald.  He  took  more  firm  hold  of 
Rita's  hand,  and  they  rushed  down  the  steep,  slippery  mall. 

"  Oh — I — can— hardly  breathe!  "  Rita  panted,  as  they 
stopped  and  turned  to  look  back  at  the  long  slope. 

Donald  stared  at  her.  "  My,  you've  got  red  cheeks!  "  he 
said. 

Rita  put  up  a  mittened  hand  and  touched  them.  "  They 
burn." 

He  picked  up  a  handful  of  snow,  and  before  she  knew 
what  he  was  about,  had  rubbed  it  over  her  face.  "  So's  it 
won't  freeze,"  he  told  her  solemnly. 

"  They're  frozen  now,"  she  said,  smiling. 

It  was  in  1910.  The  white  marble  wings  of  the  State- 
house  were  still  in  the  minds  of  politicians,  and  the  yellow 
brick  building  was  warm  above  the  snow.  Like  a  great  sun, 
it  crowned  the  top  of  the  hill;  the  old  Beacon  street  houses 
lurched  down  at  its  left,  and  the  Common  swept  away  majes- 
tically before  it. 

"  I  hope  they've  cleaned  the  snow  from  the  pond,"  Donald 
said,  as  they  turned  towards  the  Public  Gardens. 

The  artificial  lake  was  a  smooth  sheet  of  ice,  curving  in 
to  the  snow-banked  shores.  Rita  sat  down  on  a  bench,  and 
he  knelt  to  fasten  her  skates;  then  he  sat  beside  her  to  put 
on  his  own. 

"  You'll  learn  quickly  enough,"  he  assured  her.  "  Hold  on 
to  me  tight,  though,  and  try  to  keep  your  balance." 

Uncertainly,  they  sailed  out  towards  the  middle  of  the 
pond. 


PROLOGUE  41 

"  You  won't  fall,"  Donald  warned  her.  "  Use  your  arms 
to  balance." 

They  skated  painfully  over  to  the  artificial  island,  and 
sat  down  breathlessly  on  a  rock. 

"  Want  to  try  alone?  " 

"  You  go  first,"  said  Rita.  She  watched  him  push  off  and 
skate  gracefully  out  on  the  ice.  Then  she  shuffled  after 
him,  waving  her  arms  up  and  down  like  a  windmill.  Two 
or  three  times  she  lost  her  balance  and  fell,  but  it  was  all 
great  fun,  and  she  kept  at  it  until  she  could  cross  the  pond 
without  falling. 

When  they  came  home,  they  were  chattering  with  cold, 
and  Aunt  Helen  sent  a  pitcher  of  hot  lemonade  to  the 
nursery  for  them,  when  they  had  taken  off  their  wet  clothes. 

Christmas  came,  and  the  shimmering  tree,  the  piles  of 
presents.  New  Year's,  which  was  not  so  much  of  a  holi- 
day as  it  was  in  New  York;  February,  with  St.  Valentine's 
Day  and  Lincoln's  birthday  and  Washington's  crammed  one 
after  the  other.  There  was  still  coasting,  but  the  snow  was 
beginning  to  melt.  March  brought  St.  Patrick's  day,  more 
the  day  of  the  shamrock  than  of  the  evacuation  of  Boston, 
and  winds  that  swept  the  face  of  the  city  rattled  along  the 
roofs,  shook  the  trees.  Rita  went  to  school  every  day  and 
studied  her  home  lessons  in  the  library  with  Donald  at  night. 
Bedtime  was  always  at  nine,  but  Rita  was  rarely  wide-awake 
enough  to  be  reluctant  when  Aunt  Helen  or  Uncle  Dick 
looked  up  and  said,  "  Well,  children?  " 

The  seventh  of  April  was  a  warm  day,  and  Aunt  Helen 
had  allowed  Rita  and  Donald  to  take  their  bicycles  and  ride 
through  the  Fenway.  Rita's  bicycle  had  been  a  present  from 


42  PROLOGUE 

her  mother,  Aunt  Helen  had  said;  secretly  Rita  suspected 
that  it  was  Aunt  Helen's  idea,  though  perhaps  her  mother's 
money.  The  gingham  dresses  that  Aunt  Helen  had  made 
her  could  be  smeared  with  grease  and  oil  and  torn  by  the 
pedals  without  fear  of  a  scolding.  Rita  hung  her  hat  over 
the  handlebars  by  its  elastic,  and  she  and  Donald  started 
out.  She  had  learned  to  ride  "  no  hands  ",  and  to  rest  her 
feet  on  the  bar  while  the  bicycle  slid  down  a  long  hill;  she 
could  stand  up  on  her  pedals  and  lean  well  forward  to  race 
with  her  cousin. 

The  frost  had  fallen  away  from  the  ground,  and  there  was 
a  smell  of  sweet  earth;  the  trees  were  not  in  leaf,  but  the 
gray  branches  were  furry  with  the  buds  that  were  almost 
ready  to  burst. 

"  Let's  get  off  and  sit  on  the  grass  for  a  while,"  Donald 
said.  They  were  in  the  Fenway,  and  it  was  as  quiet  as 
though  they  were  bicycling  along  a  country  road;  the  city 
was  lost  beyond  the  limits  of  the  park.  They  wheeled  their 
bicycles  up  on  the  grass,  and  sat  down  lazily  in  the  sun- 
shine. 

"  It's  been  awful  nice  having  you  live  with  us,  Rita." 

"  Awful  nice,"  she  repeated.  "  We're  always  going  to 
be  good  friends — even  after  I  go  away — aren't  we?  " 

"  You  bet  we  are.  I  never  liked  girls  much,  but  you're 
like  another  fellow,  Rita." 

"  I'm  glad."  Rita  clasped  her  knees,  and  sat  looking  at 
him.  "Oh,  I'm  so  happy!  Donald  ..." 

"  Yeh?  " 

"  You  won't  grow  up  and  not  like  me  because  I'm  a  girl, 
will  you?  Boys  do,  you  know." 


PROLOGUE  43 

"  'Course  I  won't." 

"  We  will  always  be  friends?  " 

"  Always." 

They  smiled  at  each  other  again.  The  sunshine  beat 
down,  and  they  felt  warm  and  comfortable;  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  smell  the  earth  and  the  spring  about  them.  Rita 
looked  at  Donald  thoughtfully. 

"  I'm  going  to  give  you  my  signet  ring,  Donald,"  she 
said.  "  It's  loads  too  big  for  me,  and  it'll  be  a  sort  of 
pledge — like  in  stories.  It  means  that  as  long  as  you  wear 
it,  you  like  me  and  will  be  my  friend." 

He  smiled.  "  I'll  give  you  the  ring  Mother  gave  me,  if 
you  like.  It'll  be  too  big,  though." 

"  I'll  wear  it  around  my  neck  on  a  string  until  I  grow," 
Rita  said. 

They  took  each  other's  rings  and  were  quiet  for  a 
moment;  it  was  solemn,  and  somehow  they  did  not  want  to 
talk.  It  was  the  first  time  that  either  of  them  had  ever 
thought  abstractly  of  friendship,  and  as  they  sat  there,  they 
thought  of  all  the  years  that  were  coming,  of  all  the  new 
people  they  would  meet. 

"  I'll  race  you  to  the  next  entrance  to  the  Park,"  said 
Donald  abruptly.  They  jumped  to  their  feet  and  stood, 
side  by  side,  each  with  a  foot  on  the  ground  and  a  foot  on 
the  bicycle  pedaL  "  One — two — three — go !  "  They  sped 
off  excitedly. 

When  they  came  back,  their  faces  were  streaked  with 
dust,  and  Rita's  arms  were  full  of  pussy-willows.  They 
burst  into  the  house  noisily. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Helen,"  Rita  called,  beginning  to  talk  as  soon 


44  PROLOGUE 

as  she  closed  the  door.  "  We  went  all  the  way  to  Jamaica 
Plain  and  there  were  some  pussy-willows  and  I  wanted  them 
but  I  didn't  dare  get  them  because  there  were  signs  and 
Donald  got  off  and  picked  them  for  me  and  we  came  to  a 
brook  and  we  took  off  our  shoes  and  stockings  and — "  She 
stopped,  as  she  reached  the  living-room. 

Her  mother  was  sitting  on  the  couch  beside  Aunt  Helen. 

She  was  not  so  beautiful  as  Rita  had  remembered  her; 
the  powder  that  she  rubbed  on  her  face — it  was  liquid  and 
fragrant  and  came  in  a  long,  narrow-necked  bottle — was  too 
white.  Her  hat  was  the  largest  Rita  had  ever  seen,  black, 
lined  with  gold,  and  a  gold  threaded  black  veil  hung  about 
her  face.  Her  slippers  and  dress  were  black  and  gold 
brocade. 

"  Rita  darling!  "  she  said,  and  held  out  her  arms. 

Rita  ran  over  to  her.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  caught  tightly 
to  her  breast  again,  to  smell  her  perfume.  But  the  gold 
flowers  on  her  dress  were  rough  against  her  face. 

"  Rita  darling!  " 

"  Oh,  Mother!  "  Rita  said.  She  turned  and  saw  Donald 
staring  unhappily  at  her.  The  thought  that  troubled  him 
flashed  into  her  mind.  "  Mother,  you're  not  going  to  take 
me  away?  " 

Her  mother's  arm  about  her  loosened.  "Why,  Rita!  " 
she  said. 

"  She'll  miss  the  children,"  Aunt  Helen  explained  softly. 

Rita  turned  and  stared  at  her. 

"  Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?  "  asked  Lilias. 

"Oh,  awfully  glad!"  Rita  said.  "  But— but  I  didn't 
know  that  you  were  coming  so  soon." 


PROLOGUE  45 

Lilias  Moreland  laughed.  "  You'd  have  been  prepared, 
then?  Well,  I've  come,  Rita.  I've  come  to  take  you  away 
— to  take  you  home." 

Rita's  lip  trembled.    "  Yes,  Mother,"  she  said. 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  in  amusement.  "  What  a 
dirty  frock,  Rita!  And  how  fat  you've  grown!  " 

Rita  looked  at  her  solemnly. 

"  You'd  better  run  upstairs  and  wash,  Donald,"  Aunt 
Helen  said  softly,  turning  to  her  son  who  was  staring  angrily 
at  Lilias.  "  You're  very  dusty." 

"  All  right,  Mother." 

"  I'm  going,  too,"  Rita  said.  She  rushed  out  after  him, 
and  found  him  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  leaning  on  the 
balustrade.  "Oh,  Donald!  "  she  said.  She  stood  beside 
him  and  he  took  her  hand.  "  Will  you  miss  me?  " 

"  Oh,  Rita!  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  sorrowfully. 

"  I'll  come  back,"  she  said.  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands.  "  Oh,  but  I  don't  want  to  go!  "  she  sobbed.  "I 
don't!  It's  been  so  lovely  and  sweet  and  now — " 

Donald  watched  her  unhappily.  "  Come  along,"  he  said. 
He  led  her  into  the  bathroom,  and  washed  her  face  him- 
self, with  his  own  washcloth. 

"  Rita !  "    It  was  her  mother  calling. 

Donald  wiped  her  eyes  again,  although  he  had  already 
dried  them. 

"Rita!  " 

She  stood  silently,  looking  at  him  with  round,  mournful 
eyes. 

"Rita!" 


46  PROLOGUE 

"  She's  coming,"  Donald  called  huskily.  He  looked  at 
her  helplessly.  They  stood,  facing  each  other,  their  arms 
limp  at  their  sides.  "  Go  on,"  Donald  said. 

He  turned  her  about  roughly  and  pushed  her  into  the 
hall.  She  looked  back,  and  saw  a  tear  making  a  track  down 
his  dusty  cheek. 

She  gulped,  and  rushed  blindly  down  the  stairs. 

IV 

The  black  velvet  dress  seemed  to  have  shrunk;  it  was  a 
long  time  since  Rita  had  worn  it.  She  had  forgotten  the 
black  hat  with  the  curly  ostrich  feathers,  too.  She  carried 
white  gloves  in  her  hands — they  had  not  been  worn  all 
winter. 

The  taxi-cab  bumped  through  the  narrow  streets. 

"  Where  are  we  going,  Mother?  " 

"  To  the  station,  of  course." 

Rita  sighed.  "  I  know  that.  I  mean  are  we  going  to 
New  York  or  to  Larchborough?  " 

"  Larchborough,  of  course.  You  do  ask  silly  questions, 
Rita.  Why  should  we  go  to  New  York  in  April?  " 

Rita  did  not  answer.  "  Did  you  and  Father  have  a  nice 
time  abroad?  "  she  asked  finally. 

"  Oh,  fair.  By  the  way,  Rita,  we're  going  to  have  a  guest 
with  us  part  of  the  summer — he  came  back  on  the  boat  with 
me.  A  Mr.  North." 

Rita  turned  to  her  mother  and  smiled  faintly.  "  Friend 
of  Father's?  "  she  asked. 

Lilias  looked  at  her  quickly.  "  Mr.  North  is  a  friend 
to  us  both,  of  course,  Rita." 


PROLOGUE  47 

Rita  smiled  again.  The  cab  drew  up  at  the  station,  and 
she  climbed  into  the  train  with  her  mother  sadly.  Of  course 
some  day  she  would  go  back  to  Boston  and  to  Uncle  Dick 
and  Aunt  Helen.  But  it  was  hard  to  leave  them  all. 

And  Larchborough  would  be  the  same.  She  knew  that 
her  father  would  take  up  his  long  walks  again,  and  that  she 
would  sit  up  at  dinner  to  talk  with  him,  while  her  mother 
and  the  new  man  talked  in  low  voices.  Perhaps  she  would 
never  go  back  to  Boston  again ;  Rita  closed  her  eyes  quickly, 
and  tried  not  to  think. 


CHAPTER   FOUR 


THE  summer  at  Larchborough  was  a  lonely  one  for  Rita. 
The  grown  people  were  insufficient  after  the  year  with 
Donald  and  the  twins;  the  boys  and  girls  she  had  played 
with  before  had  either  passed  her  in  development,  or  lagged 
behind.  Bobby  had  become  extremely  masculine,  and  his 
scorn  for  girls  included  Rita.  He  played  baseball  and  foot- 
ball and  went  fishing;  he  blushed  and  squirmed  when  Rita 
spoke  to  him. 

So  Rita  sought  the  library  and  began  to  read.  She  had 
read  all  the  books  in  her  own  room,  and  the  sets  of  Cooper, 
Scott,  and  Dickens  in  the  library.  She  read  Poe,  and  used 
to  tremble  in  her  bed  at  night.  She  tried  De  Maupassant 
and  was  fascinated  and  repelled;  in  all,  she  read  about 
three  volumes  of  short  stories  before  she  pushed  him  aside 
and  went  on  to  Balzac.  Then  she  discovered  a  shelf  of 
paper-covered  novels,  and  in  the  center,  "  Mademoiselle  de 
Maupin  ",  which  she  began  to  read  because  of  its  illustra- 
tions. 

Sometimes,  when  she  read,  the  beauty  of  the  words  hurt 
her  so  that  she  put  the  book  down,  and  sat  with  her  eyes 
closed,  as  though  she  were  hypnotized.  She  did  not  like 
the  story;  it  dissatisfied  her  vaguely.  But  she  kept  the 
book  in  her  own  room,  and  read  and  reread  paragraphs 

48 


PROLOGUE  49 

from  it.  Luck  brought  her  next  to  "  The  Confessions  of 
a  Young  Man  ". 

"  He's  wrong,  Father,"  she  said  to  Webster  Moreland 
one  day  when  he  came  into  the  library  and  sat  down  beside 
her.  "  He  quotes  '  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  '  who  said  that 
the  face  of  love  can  be  looked  on  only  once,  and  says  that 
a  good  book  can  be  read  only  once.  It's  so  very  wrong, 
Father." 

Webster  Moreland  smiled.    "  How  old  are  you,  Rita?  " 

"Thirteen.    Why,  Father?" 

"  I  couldn't  remember.  I'm  glad  you  like  to  read,  Rita, 
there  is  no  better  way  of  finding  out  what  you  believe." 

Rita  nodded.  "  But,  Father,  don't  you  think  he's  wrong?  " 

He  laughed.  "  What  I  think  doesn't  matter  to  you,  Rita. 
You  must  form  your  own  opinions."  He  went  on  into  his 
workroom,  and  Rita  sat  looking  after  him.  She  wanted  to 
hear  someone's  opinions,  and  neither  her  mother  nor  father 
would  talk  with  her.  How  was  she  going  to  learn  things 
.  .  .  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went  on  reading. 

Marie  Bashkir tseff's  diary  was  next  on  the  shelf,  and 
Rita's  heart  went  out  to  the  little  Russian  girl.  Rita  had 
never  kept  a  diary;  the  winter  in  Boston  had  been  too  full 
for  her  to  think  about  herself,  and  in  the  years  before  that 
she  had  been  a  child.  For  the  first  time  she  was  conscious 
that  she  was  a  girl,  and  the  realization  of  it  filled  all  her 
thoughts. 

She  would  grow  up  to  be  a  woman — perhaps  a  beautiful 
woman.  She  would  have  beaux,  and  graduate  from  beaux 
to  lovers,  perhaps  some  day  a  husband.  She  would  love, 
and  be  loved;  some  day  she  might  have  children.  Rita 


50  PROLOGUE 

was  thirteen  years  old,  and  she  understood  about  babies 
now.  Then  in  addition  to  becoming  a  woman,  she  would 
become  a  person.  She  would  have  hands  and  a  brain  to 
keep  busy;  she  would  work.  It  was  confusing,  and  she 
wanted  to  talk  with  someone  about  it,  but  there  was  no  one 
with  whom  she  could  talk. 

She  bought  herself  a  great  notebook,  and  a  bottle  of 
violet  ink. 

II 

August  3rd,  1911. 

There  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  write  in  my  diary 
tonight,  and  so  little  time  to  do  it  all.  I  guess,  first  of  all, 
I  want  to  think  about  the  things  I've  been  reading.  In 
"  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest ",  Cecily  says,  "  You 
see,  it  is  simply  a  very  young  girl's  record  of  her  own 
thoughts  and  impressions,  and  consequently  meant  for  pub- 
lication." And  in  the  margin,  Mother  had  crossed  out 
meant  and  written  unfit.  It  makes  me  think  that  Mother 
could  never  have  been  a  young  girl — for  of  course  Oscar 
Wilde  meant  meant.  And  I  wonder  if  it  isn't  true.  I  don't 
like  to  admit  it  even  to  myself,  but  I'm  afraid  it  is  of  mine. 
Because  I  do  think  I'm  exceptional — I  suppose  everyone 
does — but  somehow  I  am  different.  I  think  I  should  have 
liked  Oscar  Wilde.  He  understands  so  much.  There's  "  The 
Decay  of  Lying  ",  where  Vivian  says,  "  Who  wants  to  be 
consistent?  "  Oh,  I  don't — it's  so  terribly  dull  and  unin- 
teresting. Father's  consistent,  and  Mother  tries  to  be,  which 
is  just  as  bad.  Mother,  of  course,  has  no  imagination  at 
all. 


PROLOGUE  51 

Tonight  when  we  came  up  to  bed,  we  stopped  in  the 
hall  to  light  candles.  I  lighted  Mother's  in  her  favorite 
candle-stick,  a  funny  little  shallow  brass  saucer,  with  a 
tiny  stand  for  the  candle.  The  candle  towered  up  above 
it — it  was  a  fresh  one.  "  It  looks  like  an  overgrown  boy 
in  short  trousers,  doesn't  it?  "  I  asked.  "  I  hope  it  won't 
drip  over  my  bureau,"  Mother  said.  "  It's  windy  outside. 
Good-night,  dear." 

Oh,  how  can  people  be  like  that!  It  makes  me  sympathize 
with  Marie  Bashkirtseff  for  throwing  the  dining-room  clock 
into  the  sea.  Oh,  how  I'd  love  to  throw  something  into 
the  lake!  I  hope  it  was  a  square,  substantial,  black  marble 
clock  that  looked  like  the  shiny  coffin  of  a  baby  buried  at 
sea  as  it  went  down  into  the  water,  saying  conventionally, 
even  in  its  hour  of  death,  "  Tick-tock.  Tick-tock." — like 
the  alarm  clock  the  alligator  swallowed  in  Peter  Pan.  Oh, 
I'm  so  unhappy!  I'd  like  to  burn  up  all  my  clothes,  or  cut 
off  one  of  my  fingers  with  the  carving  knife,  or  kick  the 
dog,  or  scream  just  as  loud  as  I  canl 

August  4th,  1911. 

I've  just  come  in  from  picking  a  great  bunch  of  nastur- 
tiums— rich  crimson  ones  and  goldey  yellow  ones,  and 
orange  and  salmon  ones.  I  love  to  pick  flowers.  At  least 
when  I'm  picking  them  for  the  fun.  There  are  two  ways 
of  picking  them — when  all  the  vases  are  empty  and  must  be 
filled,  I  pick  steadily  and  thoroughly.  But  when  the  vases 
are  all  filled,  and  so  is  the  garden,  I  can  run  from  blossom 
to  blossom,  always  seeing  a  prettier  one  ahead,  or  else 
behind.  It's  so  simple  to  be  happy  then. 


52  PROLOGUE 

I  think  life  is  like  that.  I'm  not  happy  now.  I  think 
I  am  dreaming  too  much — I  feel  as  if  I  were  two  persons, 
and  while  /  am  thinking,  there  run  other  thoughts  through 
my  head.  It  seems  as  though  I  know  what  they  are,  but 
when  I  try  to  translate  them  to  my  own  mind,  I  am  left 
only  with  the  thoughts  /  was  thinking,  and  a  feeling  of  some- 
thing wrong  and  sad. 

I  think  it's  because  there  are  two  Rita  Morelands  now, 
and  I'm  not  one  or  the  other.  I  wish  I  was  either  grown- 
up or  a  little  girl.  It's  so  horrid  not  to  be  either.  Some- 
times I  cut  out  paper  dolls  and  make  them  dresses  and  have 
a  lovely  time  all  day,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  wish  I  was 
a  woman  with  someone  who  loved  me.  Perhaps  if  I  had 
more  to  do,  I  wouldn't  feel  so  badly.  But  I  don't  know. 
I  wish  I  knew  what  I  wanted. 

Ill 

In  the  fall  of  1911,  Rita  was  sent  to  a  girls'  boarding- 
school.  She  went  willingly,  not  because  she  particularly 
wanted  to  go,  but  because  she  preferred  it  to  staying  at 
home,  and  could  not  think  of  anything  more  interesting  to 
do.  She  was  happier  than  she  had  been  at  Larchborough. 
She  could  never,  of  course,  return  to  the  happiness  she  had 
felt  at  Aunt  Helen's;  she  had  begun  to  think  about  her- 
self, and  although  her  thoughts  made  her  unhappy  and  dis- 
satisfied, there  was  nothing  else  in  the  world  that  interested 
her  so  much.  She  would  not  have  traded  her  new  self- 
consciousness  for  all  the  content  in  the  world. 

At  the  school,  she  found  girls  of  all  types;  it  interested 


PROLOGUE  53 

her  to  discover  that  the  girls  who  were  considered  "  intel- 
lectual ",  who  studied,  and  were  interested  in  the  world  in 
general,  attracted  her  least.  Her  two  nearest  friends  were 
Janet  Crosby  and  Marian  Bailey. 

Janet  was  a  few  months  older  than  Rita,  a  tall,  well- 
proportioned  girl,  with  pink  cheeks  and  fair  hair.  She  was 
very  pretty;  Rita  felt  that  she  could  look  at  her  for  hours 
without  stopping  if  Janet  would  permit  it.  She  was  all  that 
Rita  wanted  to  be;  obviously  pretty,  graceful,  with  many 
little  accomplishments.  Rita  was  beginning  to  know  her- 
self well;  she  realized  that  she  would  be  beautiful,  but  it 
was  not  at  all  the  type  of  beauty  she  desired.  First  of  all, 
she  would  be  "  interesting  looking  ",  with  her  pale  skin  and 
red  hair,  her  heavy  brows  and  green  eyes.  She  looked,  out- 
wardly, like  her  father,  but  her  mother's  warmth  and  fire 
had  given  her  something  more.  She  would  never  be  able 
to  draw  a  little,  play  the  piano  and  the  mandolin  slightly, 
write  fairly  well,  act  as  well  as  the  best  amateurs,  swim 
and  play  tennis,  enjoy  a  George  Barr  McCutcheon  novel 
as  well  as  write  an  interesting  treatise  on  "  The  Way  of  All 
Flesh  ".  Janet  could  do  all  those  things.  Rita  would  find 
one  subject  that  interested  her,  study  it,  know  it  thoroughly, 
and  hold  to  it.  She  knew  that,  and  she  wished  that  since 
it  was  so,  she  could  at  least  discover  the  subject. 

Marian  was  entirely  different,  she  was  fat  and  awkward, 
with  a  noisy  laugh  that  she  could  never  control.  She 
chewed  gum,  and  adored  Bernard  Shaw,  because  he  was  so 
original,  and — well,  you  know — you've  read  "  Mrs.  Warren's 
Profession  "?  Oscar  Wilde  amused  her,  but  she  read  him 
secretly,  because  he  wasn't — quite  nice,  and  her  parents 


54  PROLOGUE 

disapproved  of  him.  She  found  humor  in  everything,  and 
was  thoroughly  kind-hearted  and  generous. 

Rita  alternately  studied  and  cut  classes;  she  was  more 
interested  in  her  English  course  than  she  had  ever  been  in 
anything,  until  she  discovered  that  she  was  in  danger  of 
becoming  "  teacher's  pet ".  Then  she  became  almost  stupid, 
and  merely  glanced  through  her  lessons.  French  fascinated 
her,  and  as  Madame  assumed  a  distinctly  hostile  attitude 
towards  her  pupils,  and  taught  them  with  the  conviction 
that  everything  she  said  passed  in  one  ear  and  out  the 
other,  Rita  studied  hard  and  even  induced  the  good-natured 
Marian  to  talk  French  with  her  while  they  dressed  in  the 
morning. 

At  Thanksgiving,  she  and  Janet  spent  their  vacation  with 
Marian's  family,  outside  of  Boston.  The  Baileys  were  a 
large,  untidy  family,  who  were  always  intensely  amused  at 
something  or  other.  Rita  immediately  became  "  Carrot- 
top  "  to  the  three  boys,  and  did  not  mind  in  the  least  be- 
cause they  were  so  nice  about  it.  Occasionally  Mr.  Bailey, 
a  small  fat  man  with  a  pink  face,  addressing  Rita,  would 
say  "  Carrot — I  mean,  Rita  ",  and  the  entire  family  would 
burst  out  laughing.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bailey  regarded  each 
other  with  tender  amusement;  Mrs.  Bailey  called  her  hus- 
band "you  fat  old  thing",  and  when  Mr.  Bailey  wanted 
to  be  riotously  funny,  he  called  her  "  Mamma  ",  with  the 
accent  on  the  last  syllable,  instead  of  his  customary 
"  Mother  ". 

Rita  decided  that  they  were  more  or  less  vulgar  and 
quite  middle-class,  but  that  she  loved  them.  On  Thanks- 
giving Day;  relatives  poured  in  all  morning,  and  when  one 


PROLOGUE  55 

o'clock  arrived,  Mr.  Bailey  sat  at  one  end  of  the  long 
table — they  had  put  in  five  extra  leaves — carving  the  largest 
turkey  Rita  had  ever  seen,  and  Grandpop  Bailey  sat  at  the 
other  end,  carving  a  huge  goose.  In  between  were  bowls 
of  vegetables  and  cranberry  sauce,  with  large  spoons 
sticking  up,  like  shovels  in  sandpails  at  the  sea- 
shore. 

Rita  liked  the  Baileys,  and  realized  that  they  were  happy, 
that  they  had  found  what  they  sought.  But  it  solved  no 
problem  for  her.  She  could  never  bear  to  be  the  untidy 
mother  of  a  large,  untidy  family.  Although  she  saw  every- 
thing in  relation  to  herself,  it  did  not  affect  her  judgment 
or  affections. 

She  visited  Janet  at  Christmas— she  decided  that  it  would 
be  pleasanter  than  Christmas  at  home — and  wondered 
whether  perhaps  the  Crosbys  would  answer  her  question. 
Janet,  like  herself,  was  an  only  child,  and  Mrs.  Crosby,  like 
her  mother,  was  beautiful.  But  there  was  a  difference; 
Rita  decided  that  Mrs.  Crosby  would  like  more  children,  if 
she  could  afford  it,  that  she  was  primarily  a  mother.  The 
Crosbys  lived  in  an  apartment  that  was  not  large  enough 
for  them;  it  was  prettily  furnished,  but  Rita  realized  that 
Mrs.  Crosby  hated  the  bright  pieces  of  Chinese  embroidery, 
and  Spanish  shawls,  because  they  hid  worn  spots  on  the 
furniture.  Mr.  Crosby  was  handsome,  and  Rita  instantly 
disliked  him;  then  realized  suddenly  that  the  things  she 
disliked  in  him  were  the  same  traits  she  liked  in  his  daugh- 
ter. He  was  versatile,  as  was  Janet,  and  it  was  his  versa- 
tility, his  overabundance  of  talents  that  kept  the  family  poor. 
He  was  clever  and  charming;  sometimes  when  he  made 


56  PROLOGUE 

some  particularly  brilliant  remark,  his  wife  smiled  sadly, 
Rita  thought  he  was  probably  unfaithful  to  her. 

They  both  adored  Janet;  Mr.  Crosby,  because  she  was  his 
own  daughter,  impractical,  gay,  enthusiastic;  Mrs.  Crosby, 
Rita  decided,  adored  her  because  she  was  young  and  lovely. 
She  hoped  breathlessly  that  Janet  would  make  a  good 
marriage,  and  find  all  the  things  in  life  that  she  had  only 
tasted,  or  missed  altogether. 

Rita  wondered,  as  she  and  Janet  rode  back  to  school  on 
the  train,  whether  anywhere  there  were  married  people  whom 
she  could  envy,  could  copy.  Were  people  never  happy? 
Of  course  there  were  Aunt  Helen  and  Uncle  Dick ;  but  Rita 
and  Aunt  Helen  had  few  interests  in  common;  Rita  did  not 
plan  to  give  up  her  life  to  the  adoration  and  care  of  a  hus- 
band and  children. 

She  had  not  seen  any  of  her  cousins  since  the  winter 
before.  At  first  she  and  Donald  had  corresponded  rather 
regularly,  and  Donald  was  put  on  the  list,  signed  by  her 
mother,  of  males  from  whom  she  might  receive  letters  at 
school.  But  as  the  months  went  by,  their  letters  lagged. 
Her  mother  forwarded  her  a  letter  from  Aunt  Helen,  which 
said  that  Donald  had  entered  a  preparatory  school,  and 
enclosed  a  picture  of  him  in  long  trousers.  Rita  realized 
she  would  have  to  make  friends  with  him  all  over 
again. 

The  school  year  passed,  and  in  the  spring  her  mother 
gasped  at  the  tall  daughter  who  had  been  returned  to  her, 
and  shipped  her  off  to  a  girls'  camp.  It  was  at  the  sea- 
shore, and  Rita  swam  and  played  tennis,  rode  horseback  and 
went  on  hikes,  and  came  back  to  her  mother  in  the  fall, 


PROLOGUE  57 

tanned  and  freckled,  with  muscles  in  her  arms  that  made 
Lilias  wince. 

The  winters  of  1913  and  1914  were  spent  at  the  school. 
Janet  had  her  hair  up  and  had  been  kissed  twice;  Marian 
was  as  fat  as  ever,  and  as  laughing.  Rita  had  changed 
little;  she  was  bothered  by  the  same  doubts  and  troubles. 
Janet  seemed  to  have  solved  them.  She  planned  evening 
gowns  for  the  coming  summer  and  talked  of  boys.  Letters 
in  straggling  boyish  hands  were  smuggled  in  to  her;  the 
chambermaid  was  bribed  to  take  the  answers  to  the  post- 
office. 

Rita  looked  on  all  this  with  no  particular  scorn,  and  no 
particular  interest. 

IV 

Rita  hurried  up  the  stairs  to  Marian's  room,  and  found 
three  other  girls  besides  Janet  sitting  about  on  the  floor. 
Marian's  room  was  large,  with  photographs  of  the  Bailey 
family  and  friends  hung  on  the  walls,  and  piles  of  huge, 
cretonne-covered  cushions.  Marian  had  not  "  gone  in  for  " 
the  aesthetic  wave  that  had  swept  the  school,  and  as  a 
result,  although  the  girls  preferred  artistically  the  simple 
chastity  of  their  own  cell-like  chambers,  they  spent  most  of 
their  time  in  comfort  with  Marian. 

Leslie  Hartman,  a  thin,  sallow  girl  whom  Rita  did  not 
like,  was  talking;  Janet  sat  at  her  right,  and  Francesca 
Woodward,  an  older  girl,  on  her  left;  Marian  and  Polly 
Fisher  completed  the  circle.  They  were  listening  to  Leslie, 
and  Rita  stood,  hesitating  in  the  doorway;  Leslie  was  tell- 


58  PROLOGUE 

ing  a  story,  and  it  was  not  a  nice  story.  "  Come  on  in," 
Marian  called,  and  Leslie  went  on  with  the  story. 

Rita's  cheeks  were  flaming  when  she  had  finished.  "  I 
should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Leslie  Hart- 
man!  "  she  said  indignantly.  "We're  too  old  to  act  like 
nasty  little  children  writing  things  with  chalk  on  walls. 
That's  just  what  you  are — a  bunch  of  horrid  little 
children." 

Janet  looked  up,  startled. 

"  I  think  Rita's  right,"  Fran  Woodward  said.  "  Of  course 
all  kids  go  through  a  disgusting  age,  but  we  ought  to  be 
out  of  it.  It's  not  very  nice,  Leslie." 

"  Little  prig!  "  Leslie  said  scornfully. 

"  I'd  rather  be  a  prig  than  a  pig!  "  Rita  said.  "  And  I'm 
not  a  prig.  It's  just — " 

"  You're  not — a  very  good  person  to  be  getting  moral," 
Leslie  said  unpleasantly. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

The  girl  smiled.  "  Of  course,  Rita,  everyone  who  knows 
your  mother  knows — "  Her  smile  died,  as  Rita  faced  her. 

"  Are  you  going  on?  "  Rita  asked  quietly,  her  face  grown 
white.  The  other  girls  stared  at  them;  Rita's  hands  were 
clenched.  "  Leslie  Hartman,  if  you  ever  speak  to  me  again 
as  long  as  you  live,  Pll  kill  you.  And  if  I  ever  hear  you 
say  anything  about  my  mother,  or  I  ever  hear  of  your  hav- 
ing said  anything  about  my  mother,  I'll  kill  you.  I'm  going 
to  stay  here  in  Marian's  room,  and  I  don't  intend  to  stay 
in  the  same  room  with  you.  You'd  better  go  out." 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily.  "  Marian,  are  you 
going  to  put  me  out  of  your  room?  "  Leslie  asked. 


PROLOGUE  59 

"  I'm  afraid  so,"  Marian  said  uncertainly. 

"Are  the  rest  of  you  going  to  stay  here  after  the  way 
I've  been  treated?  " 

"  I  am,"  Fran  Woodward  said  cheerfully. 

"  So'm  I,"  said  Janet. 

Polly  Fisher  nodded  breathlessly. 

"  Are  you  going?  "  Rita  asked,  holding  open  the  door. 
Leslie  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  around  her,  before  she 
went  out.  The  girls  were  quiet,  as  Rita  crossed  the  room 
and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  cushions.  "  Well,  wasn't  that 
math  exam  awful?  "  Rita  asked.  "  Does  anyone  think 
they  possibly  passed?  " 

They  began  to  talk  hurriedly,  everyone  anxious  to  say 
something.  Rita  was  trembling  with  anger,  and  it  was 
difficult  for  her  to  stay  and  talk;  in  about  half  an  hour  she 
got  up.  "  I've  got  to  study,"  she  said.  Janet  kissed  her 
good-bye,  and  then  Marian  kissed  her;  Fran  Woodward 
followed  her  out  into  the  hall. 

"  May  I  come  up  to  your  room  with  you,  Rita?  "  she 
asked. 

Rita  hesitated.    "  Come  along,"  she  said. 

She  had  never  known  Fran  Woodward  well ;  she  was  one 
of  the  older  girls,  and  it  was  only  in  the  last  few  months 
that  she  had  seen  anything  of  her  at  all. 

"  You  were  splendid,  Rita,"  she  said.  "  That  little  Hart- 
man  girl  needed  a  beating  up.  I  guess  you  scared  her  all 
right.  Even  that  little  Fisher  kid,  who's  had  an  awful  crush 
on  her,  wouldn't  stand  up  for  her." 

"  Don't  let's  talk  about  it,"  said  Rita. 

"  Women  are  such  cats,"  Fran  said,  sitting  down  on  the 


60  PROLOGUE 

edge  of  Rita's  bed.  "O  Lord,  Rita,  I  don't  believe  I've 
ever  really  liked  a  woman  in  my  life." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have,"  said  Rita.  She  smiled  at 
Fran,  conscious  suddenly  that  she  liked  her. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  their  friendship;  after  that, 
they  talked  of  many  things  together.  Fran's  mother  was 
dead;  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  painter  who  lived  in  New 
York,  and  who  was  quite  too  young  to  have  a  tall  daughter 
around  him.  So  Fran,  even  more  than  Rita,  had  been  sent 
from  one  school  to  another. 

"  I'm  eighteen,  Rita,"  Fran  said.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
stand  it  much  longer.  But  everyone  I  can  marry,  I  don't 
want  to.  I'm  going  on  the  stage." 

"  But  isn't  it  pretty  hard?  "  asked  Rita.  "  I  mean— don't 
you  have  to  know  people  with  influence  pretty  well?  " 

"  You  can  get  to  know  'em  pretty  well,"  Fran  said  darkly. 
"  Better  than  you  like,  I  guess." 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily  for  a  moment,  and 
Rita  felt  flattered  because  she  understood  what  Fran  meant. 
She  felt  suddenly  sophisticated,  and  more  of  a  woman  than 
the  other  girls  at  the  school.  She  did  like  Fran  Wood- 
ward. 

The  hardness  of  her  mother  and  father  had  left  no  impres- 
sion on  Rita;  after  all,  they  were  older  people,  and  people 
who  had  made  failures  of  life.  But  Fran  was  young,  just 
enough  older  than  she  to  command  respect,  and  her  cynicism 
sunk  deep  in  Rita's  consciousness.  Rita's  mind  was  in  such 
a  state  of  uncertainty  and  unrest  that  she  was  ready  to 
accept  any  point  of  view  of  life,  so  long  as  it  was  well  denned. 
She  was  as  ready  to  hate  life  as  to  love  it,  to  have  confidence 


PROLOGUE  61 

as  well  as  distrust.  The  two  girls  read  together,  discussed 
life  and  people. 

"  Well,  we've  formed  our  philosophy,"  Fran  said  one 
day.  "  We're  not  going  to  let  life  hurt  us  as  it  does  other 
people.  What  will  be,  will  be — " 

"  Let  it  be,"  said  Rita  solemnly. 

"  Follow  your  emotions,"  said  Fran — it  was  almost  a 
chant. 

"  Be  happy — remember  that  it's  selfish  to  be  unselfish." 

"  And  be  kind,"  concluded  Fran. 

They  smiled  at  each  other.  Their  conversation  in  those 
days  was  sprinkled  with  Oscar  Wilde — the  only  way  to  be 
rid  of  a  temptation  is  to  yield  to  it — /  hate  nature;  she's  so 
uncomfortable — who  wants  to  be  consistent — the  art  of 
lying  .  .  . 

The  school  year  ended,  and  Fran  and  Rita  stood  side  by 
side  on  the  station  platform,  a  little  apart  from  the  other 
girls.  Fran's  dark  hair  was  hidden  beneath  a  feather  hat; 
her  suit  was  exquisite,  her  gloves  spotless  and  slim.  Rita 
felt  that  she  was  too  much  of  a  schoolgirl  in  her  belted 
Norfolk  jacket,  her  sailor  hat. 

"  You're  going  straight  to  New  York,  Fran?  " 

"  Yes.  I'm  going  to  drop  in  to  see  Father  and  tell  him 
that  he  can  give  me  the  money  he's  been  spending  on  me 
as  an  allowance  until  I  can  support  myself.  Lord  knows, 
he's  rich  enough — he  might  as  well  give  it  to  me  as  to  some 
other  woman." 

Rita  nodded  wisely.  "  I'll  be  in  New  York  this  winter, 
too,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Fran,  you  won't  forget  me?  " 

"  Rather  not." 


62  PROLOGUE 

"And  when  you're  a  beautiful  actress  and  I'm  a  poor 
newspaper  lady,  you'll  give  me  your  best  interviews?  " 

"  Rather." 

The  train  snorted  up  the  track,  and  they  got  on.  They 
talked  feverishly  until  Fran  got  off  to  change  to  the  New 
York  train. 

"  Good-bye,  Fran." 

"  Good-bye." 

They  kissed  each  other  affectionately.  "  You  will  write 
me?" 

"  Yes." 

Rita  leaned  out  the  window,  and  watched  until  the  spot 
of  color  that  was  Fran's  hat  was  lost  in  the  distance. 

V 

June  20th,  1914. 
DEAR  DONALD: 

It's  such  a  long  time  since  I've  written  to  you  that  I 
feel  almost  as  if  I  was  writing  another  person.  Aunt  Helen 
sent  a  picture  of  you  to  Mother,  and  oh,  how  you've  grown! 
You're  really  a  man  now,  aren't  you?  I've  grown  a  good 
bit,  but  I  think  it's  nicer,  almost,  to  be  a  little  girl.  I'm 
so  sort  of  puzzled  about  everything,  and  discontented.  I 
guess  in  all  my  life  the  happiest  time  was  the  winter  with 
your  family  in  Boston.  Remember  how  you  taught  me  to 
skate?  And  to  ride  a  bicycle? 

I've  been  away  at  school  for  three  years,  and  last  summer 
I  was  at  a  girls'  camp.  We  rode  horseback  and  played  out 
a  lot.  I've  been  reading  all  the  time  lately — have  you?  Do 
you  feel  awfully  puzzled  about  everything?  It  seems  as 


PROLOGUE  63 

though  there  are  so  many  things  I've  got  to  learn,  and  so 
little  time  to  learn  them.  Just  think,  I'm  almost  sixteen 
years  old!  And  you're  eighteen — 'most  nineteen.  That's 
awfully  old,  isn't  it? 

Does  it  bother  you  at  all — growing  up?  Father  calls 
them  mental  growing  pains,  the  things  I'm  going  through. 
He  says  it's  because  I'm  neither  hay  nor  grass — he  means 
I'm  neither  a  little  girl  nor  a  grown  woman.  It's  so  puz- 
zling. I'm  not  a  little  girl  who  can  play  with  dolls  and  things, 
but  I'm  not  big  enough  to  go  to  really  grown-up  dances  and 
get  engaged  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Which  seems  awfully 
dull  to  me,  anyway. 

Are  you  upset,  too?  I  mean  do  you  feel  as  though  you 
weren't  a  little  boy  any  longer  and  yet  not  a  man?  Are 
you  worrying  about  all  the  things  you're  going  to  do  when 
you're  grown  up?  What  are  you  going  to  do,  anyway? 
Do  you  still  want  to  be  a  mechanical  engineer? 

I'm  asking  you  an  awful  lot  of  questions,  but  I'd  really 
like  to  know.  You're  the  only  person  I've  ever  talked  with 
very  much — you  do  always  understand,  Donald.  And  when 
we  were  together — we  were  just  kids — there  weren't  so 
many  things  I  wanted  to  talk  about. 

This  is  only  a  short  letter,  but  later  on  I'm  going  to  write 
you  a  long  one,  and  tell  you  all  the  things  I'm  thinking. 

Have  you  ever  read  "  The  Book  of  Carlotta  "  by  Arnold 
Bennett?  It's  about  a  woman,  and  I  think  it's  probably 
true  of  men — of  course  a  man  wrote  it.  Carlotta  says  she 
always  feels  like  two  persons — one  who  does  things  and  says 
them,  and  another  who  sits  and  watches  and  laughs  at  her. 
Don't  you  feel  that  way?  Even  when  you're  unhappy? 


64  PROLOGUE 

And  have  you  read  Oscar  Wilde's  "Impressions  and 
Opinions  "  ?  They're  awfully  nice — it's  all  paradox,  but  all 
the  paradoxes  are  true,  somehow.  Of  course  he's  pretty 
cynical,  but  then,  everyone  is  who  thinks,  don't  you  think? 

You're  still  taking  Greek,  aren't  you?  It's  so  funny  to 
think  that  you're  in  college.  Don't  you  love  Greek?  It's 
so  much  easier  than  Latin  and  so  much  prettier.  And  isn't 
Xenophon  easy?  You  can  bluff  him  almost  all  the  time,  be- 
cause he  says  the  same  thing  so  much.  I  like  Homer  best 
— they  let  me  double  because  I  like  it  so.  Old  Virgil  is 
sort  of  a  bore,  I  think.  When  you  think  that  he  left  word 
when  he  died  for  them  to  destroy  the  ^Eneid  because  it 
wasn't  finished,  couldn't  you  simply  kill  all  those  darn 
students  who  saved  it  for  us  to  spend  hours  translating? 

Do  write  me  soon  and  answer  all  my  questions.  I'm  crazy 
to  see  you.  Give  my  love  to  Aunt  Helen  and  Uncle  Dick 
and  the  twins. 

As  ever, 

RITA. 

July  1 2th,  1914. 
DEAR  RITA: 

Sorry  I've  been  so  long  answering  your  letter,  but  I've 
been  busy — Fourth  of  July  and  all  that.  I'm  pitcher  on 
our  local  baseball  team  here,  and  maybe  we  aren't  going  to 
wipe  up  the  ground  with  the  Reds.  You  ought  to  see  one 
of  our  games — I'll  send  you  some  clippings. 

I  haven't  read  those  books — I  don't  read  much  except 
mechanical  books — too  darn  busy. 

There's  a  great  show   running  here  now — Under  the 


PROLOGUE  65 

Blossoms — musical   comedy.    I've   been   four   times — you 
ought  to  see  it. 

Pete  had  a  scrap  the  other  day  and  has  a  black  eye  as  big 
as  an  automobile  lamp.  Ruthie's  no  good — fresh  as  she 
can  be. 

Family  all  sends  love. 

Yours, 

DONALD. 

VI 

Rita  was  sixteen  years  old.  She  sat  before  the  mirror 
in  her  room  and  looked  at  her  reflection  steadily.  Sixteen 
years  old,  tall,  rather  pretty,  and  absolutely  useless  to 
everyone!  She  was  bored,  so  bored  that  she  wanted  to  cry 
aloud,  to  throw  something  on  the  floor  with  all  her  strength. 
She  had  nothing  to  do.  She  had  read  all  the  books  in  her 
room,  all  that  interested  her  and  some  that  did  not  in  the 
library  downstairs.  She  hated  sewing  and  she  had  no  interest 
in  learning  to  cook  or  run  a  house.  And  what  else  was 
there  in  the  world?  She  could  swim  and  play  tennis  and 
walk,  but  that  left  long,  dull  evenings,  and  empty  rainy 
days.  She  wondered  why  her  mother  was  not  more  dis- 
contented ;  Lilias  did  nothing,  but  she  was  always  busy.  Her 
father,  of  course,  had  his  work  which  kept  him  occupied  the 
greater  part  of  the  time,  and  left  him  just  enough  leisure  to 
swim  a  little,  walk,  read  the  papers  and  magazines,  an 
occasional  book. 

But  she  had  nothing — absolutely  nothing.  It  had  been 
the  same  for  almost  three  years  now.  Rita  reached  towards 
the  box  on  her  dressing  table  and  took  out  a  cigarette,  lighted 


66  PROLOGUE 

it.  Her  mother  would  probably  not  like  her  to  smoke,  but 
after  all,  she  was  not  interested  enough  to  know  whether  she 
smoked  or  not.  She  could  have  taken  drugs,  for  all  Lilias 
or  her  father  would  have  noticed. 

What  was  there  in  life  that  kept  people  from  committing 
suicide?  Did  they  hope  and  hope  and  expect  something 
until  they  had  responsibilities  and  the  habit  of  life?  Or 
did  something  come,  something  interesting  and  worth  while, 
eventually?  Rita  did  not  know  and  she  did  not  know  whom 
to  ask. 

It  was  easy  enough  for  her  to  become  interested  in  things, 
but  she  had  not  found  anything  that  could  hold  her  interest. 
There  were  Sonia  and  Malcolm  Heath  who  often  came  to 
the  house.  Sonia  Heath  was  a  small,  intense  person,  who 
had  come  to  America  from  Russia  when  she  was  a  little 
girl. 

"  You're  going  to  college?  "  she  asked  Rita. 

"  I  guess  so." 

"  Oh,  you  should!  And  then  when  you  finish,  Rita,  you 
ought  to  get  into  the  labor  fight.  Not  from  the  outside 
looking  in,  as  most  educated  people  do.  You  ought  to  go  to 
work  in  a  laundry  or  a  cheap  restaurant  and  join  your 
union." 

Rita  had  listened  to  her  while  she  told  of  wrongs  and 
injustices,  dramatizing  them,  making  them  colorful  and 
thrilling.  That  night  she  wrote  page  after  page  of  enthu- 
siastic plans  in  her  diary.  She  wanted  to  go  out  and  kill  a 
capitalist. 

But  in  the  morning  her  enthusiasm  had  left  her.  She 
envied  Sonia  and  Malcolm;  she  thought  it  would  be  wonder- 


PROLOGUE  67 

ful  to  be  interested  in  the  wrongs  of  the  working  classes. 
But  her  head  was  too  full  of  Rita  Moreland  for  her  to  think 
of  anything  else. 

She  wrote  in  her  diary,  pages  of  discontent  and  unhappi- 
ness.  Bobby  whistled  outside  in  the  yard,  and  she  went 
to  the  window. 

"  Coming  swimming?  " 

"  All  right."  She  might  as  well  as  not.  Bobby  had 
grown  from  the  boy  who  had  been  her  beau,  to  a  tall,  lanky 
youth  whom  Rita  did  not  particularly  like,  except  to  swim 
with,  or  play  an  occasional  game  of  tennis.  Still,  she  could 
forget  about  herself  for  a  while. 

It  was  pleasant  to  slip  into  the  lake,  and  forget  about 
everything  except  your  arms  flashing  in  the  water,  and 
your  body  shooting  through  it.  Rita  burrowed  her  face  in 
the  water,  and  turned  a  pretty  somersault.  Again  .  .  . 
This  was  really  fun. 

"  Race  you  to  the  float,  Bob!  " 

She  reached  it  first,  and  climbed  up,  shaking  the  water 
from  her.  But  finally  she  grew  tired  of  swimming,  and  went 
up  the  path  to  the  house. 

"  Play  tennis  after?  " 

"  Don't  believe  so,  Bobby."  She  was  tired  of  tennis,  and 
particularly  of  tennis  with  Bobby.  She  knew  by  heart 
every  movement  that  he  would  make,  just  when  he  would 
say  "  Hole  in  my  racket  "  or  "  I  keep  forgetting  this  isn't 
a  bat — pretty  good  chance  for  a  home  run,  Rita." 

When  she  came  down  into  the  living-room,  her  red  hair 
still  moist  about  her  forehead,  her  mother  looked  up  lan- 
guidly and  smiled. 


68  PROLOGUE 

"  You're  very  attractive,"  she  said.  "  That's  the  dress 
you  bought  when  you  went  to  town,  isn't  it?  Turn  around 
and  let  me  see  you." 

Rita  turned  slowly,  and  caught  her  reflection  in  the  mirror 
at  the  opposite  end  of  the  living-room.  She  was  tall  and 
slender,  with  rounded  arms  and  breasts.  Her  dress  was 
green  like  her  eyes,  and  tied  about  her  waist  with  narrow 
ribbons  of  different  colors  that  fluttered  over  her  skirt.  She 
had  fastened  her  wavy,  red  hair  at  her  neck  with  a  bow  of 
three  ribbons,  yellow,  lavender,  and  green.  She  had  been 
"  strange  looking  ",  as  a  little  girl,  rather  than  pretty,  but 
now  she  had  grown  to  her  long  legs ;  as  her  face  had  become 
more  full,  her  eyebrows  seemed  less  thick  and  black. 

"  You  have  an  air,"  Lilias  said.  "  What  made  you  think 
of  tying  your  hair  that  way?  " 

Rita  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  You're  almost  old  enough  to  do  it  up.  It  will  be  pretty 
on  top  of  your  head." 

Rita  smiled  at  her  mother.  "  Don't  want  to  do  it 
up." 

"  You're  a  strange  girl,"  said  Lilias.  "  When  I  was  your 
age,  I  was  crazy  to  be  grown-up  and  have  beaux." 

"  May  be  that's  why  I'm  not,"  said  Rita  carelessly.  "I've 
seen  enough  of  men." 

She  did  not  believe  that;  she  had  not  seen  anywhere  near 
as  much  of  men  as  she  wanted,  but  she  would  not  admit  that 
to  her  mother.  But  she  did  not  want  beaux,  as  her  mother 
imagined  them;  insipid  youths  who  talked  incessantly  of 
themselves,  and  tried  to  hold  your  hand.  Sometimes  they 
asked  if  they  could  kiss  you.  Then  Rita  always  shrugged 


PROLOGUE  69 

her  shoulders,  and  said,  "  It  doesn't  sound  particularly 
interesting,  but  if  it  will  make  you  feel  any  better — "  They 
blushed  then,  and  did  not  speak  of  kissing  again,  Rita 
wanted  a  man  who  knew  how  to  make  love,  when  she  had 
a  beau  at  all.  She  didn't  want  anyone  to  experiment  with 
her.  Kisses  that  landed  near  her  chin  or  eyebrow  annoyed 
her ;  she  preferred  to  remain  unkissed.  And  yet  she  wanted 
very  much  to  have  a  man  love  her. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  that  you  care  enough  to  look  decent, 
anyway,"  her  mother  said.  "  Do  you  remember  Estelle  and 
Roy  Warren?  I  have  a  letter  from  them  here.  They're 
coming  down  to  visit  us." 

"  That'll  be  nice— it's  frightfully  dull  here."  Rita  walked 
about  the  room  aimlessly.  "  Lord,  I'm  bored.  Don't  you 
get  sick  of  everything,  Mother?  " 

Lilias  Moreland  smiled.  "  Yes,"  she  said.  "  But  what's 
the  use?  " 

"  None,  I  guess."  Rita  went  out  on  the  piazza,  and 
down  the  path  to  the  lake.  Bobby,  and  a  boy  in  white 
flannel  trousers  and  a  belted  blue  coat  were  tying  their  boat 
to  the  dock. 

"  We  were  just  coming  over  to  see  you,"  said  Bobby. 
"  I  want  you  to  meet  Arthur  Morse,  Rita." 

Rita  held  out  her  hand  and  looked  at  the  young  man. 
He  was  short  and  fair,  with  twinkling  blue  eyes  and  a 
freckled  nose.  She  decided  rather  quickly  that  she  liked 
him. 

"  We  wondered  if  you'd  go  to  the  movies  with  us  to- 
night? " 

"  Yes,  I'd  like  to,"  Rita  said.    It  might  be  amusing,  and 


70  PROLOGUE 

she  was  so  desperately  bored  that  even  seventeen-year-old 
Bobby  and  his  friend  were  better  than  sitting  alone  in  the 
living-room  and  hating  everything. 

"  I'm  awfully  hot,"  Arthur  Morse  said.  "  Can't  we  row 
over  to  that  ice-cream  pavillion  and  get  something  to 
drink?  " 

Rita  stepped  daintily  into  the  boat  and  chattered  with 
the  new  boy  while  Bobby  rowed.  He  was  more  easy  to  talk 
with  than  the  average  youth  she  met,  and  Rita  found  her- 
self actually  becoming  interested  in  what  he  was  saying. 
The  pavillion  was  attractive,  jutting  out  over  the  lake; 
there  were  fresh  flowers  on  each  table,  and  the  band  had 
begun  to  play  softly. 

"  Will  you  dance?  "  Arthur  Morse  asked.  He  held  her 
firmly  as  they  started;  he  was  just  Rita's  height,  and  his 
face  was  very  close  to  hers;  it  was  comfortable  to  feel  an 
arm  about  her.  "  You  certainly  can  dance,  Miss  More- 
land." 

"  You're  not  bad  yourself,"  Rita  said,  smiling.  He  swung 
her  about  easily,  and  showed  quite  a  bit  of  imagination  with 
his  feet.  Most  boys  of  his  age  counted  softly  to  themselves 
as  they  danced. 

When  finally  they  rowed  Rita  back  to  her  dock,  Arthur 
Morse  helped  her  tenderly  out  of  the  boat,  let  his  hand  rest 
on  hers  a  moment  longer  than  was  necessary.  Rita  looked 
up  at  him  in  amusement,  and  found,  to  her  delight,  that  he 
was  grinning,  too. 

The  moving  picture  hall  that  night  was  hot  and  stuffy; 
mosquitoes  buzzed  in  through  the  windows,  and  the  woman 
at  the  piano  pounded  mechanically.  Rita  smiled  at  Bobby, 


PROLOGUE  71 

and  his  hand  crept  towards  hers  tentatively,  clutched  it.  She 
laughed  softly,  because  Arthur  Morse  had  taken  her  other 
hand  some  time  before.  She  wondered  whether  she  was 
flirting.  She  thought  suddenly  how  furious  they  would  be,  if 
they  knew  that  both  her  hands  were  being  tenderly  patted. 
Her  nose  itched  and  she  wanted  to  scratch  it;  the  whole 
affair  was  ridiculous  and  silly.  Finally,  with  a  deft  pat 
for  each  masculine  hand,  she  folded  her  own  in  her  lap  and 
gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  screen. 

They  rowed  back  across  the  lake  silently;  the  oars  dripped 
with  wet  moonlight  as  they  cut  silently  through  the  water. 

"  I'll  take  Miss  Moreland  up  to  the  house,"  said  Arthur 
Morse.  "  Don't  let  the  boat  drift  away,  Bob." 

Yes,  he  was  older  than  Bobby,  Rita  reflected,  as  she  held 
out  her  hand.  "  Good-night,  Bobby,  I've  had  a  nice  time." 

Arthur  Morse  took  firm  hold  of  her  elbow,  and  guided  her 
up  the  path.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps,  his  arm  tightened 
on  hers  and  he  leaned  over  quickly  and  kissed  her.  It  was 
a  short  kiss,  but  his  lips  were  warm,  and  Rita  noticed  with 
amusement  that  his  aim  was  pretty  good.  She  looked  at 
him  thoughtfully. 

"  You  don't  mind?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Should  I?  "  Rita  asked.  "  I  suppose  so.  No,  I  didn't 
mind.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night—Rita." 

As  she  hurried  up  the  steps  into  the  house,  she  laughed. 
This,  then,  was  the  sort  of  thing  that  most  boys  and  girls 
of  her  age  were  indulging  in.  They  probably  found  it 
interesting  and  absorbing — or  thought  they  did,  which  came 
to  the  same  end. 


72  PROLOGUE 

"Ah,  Mother,"  Rita  said,  as  she  came  into  the  living- 
room,  "  I  was  kissed!  " 

"  Not  really!  "  her  mother  said,  smiling  at  her.  "  On 
which  ear?  " 

Rita  sat  down  beside  her.  "  Pretty  squarely  on  the 
mouth,"  she  said.  "  Should  I  have  been  thrilled?  " 

Lilias  looked  at  her  with  amusement.  "  Funny  child, 
how  do  I  know?  You  weren't?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  Interested,  rather."  Rita  took  out  a  pack 
of  cards  from  the  wooden  box  in  the  center  of  the  table, 
and  laid  out  Canfield.  She  played  the  cards  slowly.  "  Guess 
111  go  to  bed."  She  kissed  Lilias,  and  went  up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 


THE  dark  clouds  that  had  hung  low  in  the  sky  throughout 
the  morning  were  blown  away  by  the  wind  from  the  lake; 
the  dust  disappeared  from  the  trees  as  if  the  expected  rain 
had  fallen  and  washed  them.  The  sky  deepened  to  the 
blue  that  it  attains  only  in  late  summer,  a  live,  throbbing 
color. 

Rita  sat  on  the  piazza  with  her  mother,  and  decided 
regretfully  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  as  gloomy  as  she 
felt  she  should  be.  It  was  impossible,  with  the  wind  blowing 
her  skirt  about  her  ankles,  catching  her  hair,  and  tossing 
it  in  a  hundred  different  ways,  whipping  the  color  into  her 
cheeks. 

"  I  think  if  I  lived  in  a  country  where  the  weather  was 
always  like  this,  I'd  always  be  cheerful,"  she  said. 

Lilias  smiled,  and  leaned  forward  to  catch  a  newspaper 
that  the  wind  was  carrying  off  the  piazza.  "  Perhaps  it's 
because  it  keeps  you  so  active,"  she  said.  "  You  look  very 
pretty,  Rita." 

"  I'm  glad."  At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  the  wind  was  diving 
down  into  the  lake,  and  pretending  it  was  a  tide,  pushing 
rolls  of  water  towards  the  shore  to  break  in  miniature 
waves.  "  There's  the  train,  Mother." 

Beyond  the  lake,  rising  behind  the  hills,  was  a  ribbon  of 

73 


74  PROLOGUE 

gray  smoke,  trailing  the  hidden  train.  The  wind  seemed  to 
see  it,  too,  for  it  turned  about  and  shattered  the  ribbon  into 
a  gray  blur  against  the  sky. 

"  Is  Alfred  meeting  them?  " 

"  Yes.    They  ought  to  be  here  in  about  ten  minutes." 

Faintly,  from  behind  the  hills,  they  heard  the  whistle 
of  the  engine;  for  a  moment  the  smoke  towered  in  one  spot 
before  it  wove  on  northwards.  The  long  gray  touring  car 
flashed  between  the  trees  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  lake, 
before  it  turned  along  the  shore  drive. 

"  Here  they  are!  "  The  car  shot  up  the  driveway 
silently. 

"  Pretty  good,"  Rita  said.    "  He  came  up  on  first." 

Estelle  and  Roy  Warren  stepped  out  and  came  up  the 
steps  of  the  piazza.  Estelle  was  pretty  in  a  matronly  sort 
of  way,  overdressed,  over-rouged.  Her  hair  was  carefully 
marcelled,  her  body  carefully  corseted;  she  looked  as 
though  she  had  been  poured  into  a  mold,  and  shaken  out 
in  perfect  form.  Her  husband  looked  younger;  a  slender 
man,  with  fair  hair  and  sunburnt  blue  eyes,  informal  and 
casual  in  dress. 

"  You  might  show  Roy  around  while  I  take  Estelle  to  her 
room,"  Lilias  suggested.  They  went  into  the  house  together, 
and  Rita  turned,  smiling,  towards  Roy  Warren. 

"  What  will  you  see?  "  she  asked.  "  We  have  a  lake,  a 
tennis  court,  three  flower  gardens,  a  garage,  a — " 

"Heavens!"  he  interrupted.  "An  embarrassment  of 
riches.  Supposing  you  let  me  sit  here  on  the  piazza,  and 
look  at  the  view.  I  haven't  seen  a  view  for  so  long — by 
the  way,  could  I  have  a  glass  of  ice- water?  " 


PROLOGUE  75 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  a  highball?  "  Rita  asked.  He 
smiled  gratefully,  and  she  went  into  the  dining-room.  It 
was  rather  pleasant  to  get  the  whiskey  bottle  and  ice-water, 
to  take  a  glass  from  the  closet,  and  put  them  on  a  tray  for 
this  man.  She  felt  a  satisfying  sense  of  womanliness  as 
she  set  the  tray  on  the  wicker  table  between  them,  poured 
out  his  whiskey. 

"  You  won't  join  me?  " 

Rita  looked  at  him  in  amusement.  Men  were  nice. 
"  Heavens,  no.  Didn't  you  know  that  I  was  a  child,  Mr. 
Warren?  " 

"  So  I've  been  told,  Miss  Moreland.  But  parents  always 
think  that.  And  there  are  none  about."  He  held  his  glass 
towards  her  gravely,  and  Rita  sipped  it. 

"  You  ply  me  with  drink,"  she  said. 

"  I  assure  you  my  intentions  are  not  honorable,"  he  said, 
still  smiling. 

"  But  you  mustn't  call  me  Miss  Moreland,"  Rita  said, 
relapsing  into  a  little  girl.  "  My,  how  Father  would  tease! 
I'm  not  so  sure  that  Mother  would  like  it — makes  her  feel 
old,  you  know." 

He  laughed.  "  Then  it  must  be  Roy.  I'm  not  going 
to  feel  any  more  antiquated  than  I  have  to,  Rita." 

"  All  right,  Roy."  Rita  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
looked  at  him.  "  I'm  glad  you  people  have  come,"  she 
said.  "  It's  been  most  awfully  dull  here." 

Webster  Moreland  came  up  the  path  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  Roy.  "  Glad  to  see  you.  Estelle's  here,  of 
course?  " 

"  Upstairs  with  Lilias." 


76  PROLOGUE 

"  Oh."  Rita  decided  quickly  that  her  father  did  not  like 
Mrs.  Warren.  "  Been  working  hard?  " 

"Yep.    You?" 

"  Lord,  yes,"  Webster  Moreland  answered.  "  What  with 
a  wife  and  a  growing  daughter — " 

Rita  smiled  tenderly  at  him;  it  was  nice  to  see  her  father 
like  someone.  He  could  be  as  friendly  and  pleasant  as 
anyone  else.  He  patted  her  hand  and  turned  to  Roy. 

"  Hasn't  she  grown,  though?  " 

"  She  was  a  mere  babe  in  arms  the  last  time  I  saw  her," 
Roy  answered.  He  looked  at  her,  too,  and  Rita  did  not 
flush  beneath  his  gaze;  it  was  friendly  and  pleasant,  with 
much  the  same  mingling  of  interest  and  curiosity  that  had 
been  in  Donald's  eyes  when  they  first  met. 

Fran  was  right;  men  were  the  only  people  in  the  world. 
You  never  had  to  wonder  what  they  were  thinking,  or  if 
they  really  meant  what  they  said.  With  all  their  faults — 
and  both  she  and  Fran  conceded  that  they  had  a  great 
many — they  were  nicer  than  women.  If  Roy  had  been  a 
woman,  he  would  have  felt  obliged  to  plunge  into  stories  of 
what  a  cunning  baby  she  had  been.  As  it  was,  he  appeared 
much  more  interested  in  what  a  charming  girl  she  had  grown 
to  be. 

Estelle  and  Lilias  came  out  on  the  piazza,  arm  in  arm. 

"  You've  grown  like  a  weed,  Rita,"  Estelle  said,  sitting 
down  in  one  of  the  low  wicker  chairs.  "  My,  you'll  be  hav- 
ing your  hair  up  soon,  won't  you?  " 

Rita  smiled. 

"And  beaux  and  everything.  Or  does  she  have  beaux 
now,  Lilias?  " 


PROLOGUE  77 

"  She  conceals  'em  if  she  does,"  her  mother  answered. 
"  She  is  perfectly  brutal  to  the  love-sick  swains  that  come 
around  down  here.  Says  she  doesn't  like  men." 

"  I  said  I  didn't  like  young  men,  Mother,"  Rita  corrected. 

"  What's  the  age  limit?  "  asked  Estelle.  "  I've  got  to 
know  whether  my  husband  is  safe." 

Rita  was  annoyed  at  the  conversation.  "  How  old  are 
you,  Roy?  "  she  asked,  turning  towards  him.  She  saw  her 
mother's  eyebrows  shoot  up. 

"  Thirty-one,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  Don't  look  so 
horrified,  Lilias — I  asked  her  to  call  me  Roy." 

"  Age  limit  is  thirty,"  Rita  said  quietly.  "  After  thirty 
they're  all  right." 

"  She's  her  mother's  own  daughter,"  Estelle  said,  laughing, 
but  she  did  not  seem  amused  wholly. 

Rita  wanted  to  say  that  her  mother  had  no  age  limit, 
but  there  was  no  use  in  being  too  unpleasant,  even  though 
she  was  irritated.  That  was  another  reason  why  she  hated 
women;  they  always  inspired  her  to  say  the  most  unkind 
things.  She  grinned  at  Roy,  and  leaned  back  still  farther 
in  her  chair. 

"  Well,  who's  going  to  play  tennis  with  me?  "  Roy  asked 
abruptly.  "  I  feel  like  a  new  man  already.  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  the  highball  that  Rita  so  charmingly  brought 
me,  or  the  country  air." 

"  I  don't  play,"  said  Lilias.    "  Estelle?  " 

"  In  these  corsets?    Lord,  no.     Does  Web  play?  " 

"  I  haven't  for  some  time,"  Webster  Moreland  said. 
"  Swimming  and  walking  are  about  the  only  exercise  I  get. 
But  Rita's  a  shark." 


78  PROLOGUE 

"  Will  you  play,  Rita?  " 

Rita  nodded.  "  I'll  have  to  change  my  dress,  but  it'll 
take  only  a  minute.  No,  really  it's  no  trouble."  She  re- 
appeared in  a  few  moments;  lifted  the  rackets  and  balls 
from  the  chest  in  the  living-room. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  experience,  Rita  found  most  of 
the  entertaining  of  a  man  guest  left  in  her  hands.  Roy 
Warren  neither  danced  nor  played  bridge;  he  was  spending 
his  short  vacation  in  Larchborough,  and  he  wanted  all  the 
outdoor  exercise  he  could  cram  into  three  weeks.  So  he  and 
Rita  swam  and  played  tennis,  walked  and  went  fishing. 

In  the  evening,  he  played  chess  with  her  father,  while 
Rita  watched;  sometimes  the  three  of  them  would  leave 
Lilias  and  Estelle  to  their  conversation  of  dresses  and  men, 
and  sit  out  on  the  piazza  and  talk  of  politics  and  books.  In 
the  time  the  Warrens  were  at  Larchborough,  Rita  came  to 
know  her  father  better  than  she  had  ever  known  him  before. 
He  liked  Roy,  and  Rita  discovered  that  he  could  be  drawn 
out,  be  made  to  talk  and  listen.  He  had  read  a  great  deal ; 
he  knew  what  was  happening  in  the  world.  For  the  most 
part,  Rita  listened  to  them,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  watch- 
ing the  glow  of  her  father's  cigar  and  the  trailing  smoke 
from  Roy's  pipe.  Once  she  asked  for  a  cigarette,  and  her 
father  gave  it  to  her  with  amusement,  went  on  talking  with- 
out noticing  her.  After  that  she  used  to  sit  quietly  and 
smoke,  while  the  sky  grew  darker.  Sometimes  she  asked 
questions,  and  her  father  or  Roy  answered  them  as  though 
she  were  a  grown  woman;  she  dared  to  disagree  with  them 
and  argue.  She  had  never  been  quite  so  happy  in  her  life. 

There  remained  only  a  week  of  the  Warrens'  visit,  and 


PROLOGUE  79 

Roy  and  Rita  were  walking  briskly  along  the  road  that 
skirted  the  lake.  It  was  late  summer,  and  the  trees  were  at 
their  heaviest,  sagging  with  hot  green  foliage;  the  road  was 
parched  and  dusty,  and  the  grass  at  the  edge  of  the  street 
was  streaked  with  clay. 

"  Lord,  this  is  the  sort  of  weather  that  rolls  any  super- 
fluous fat  off  you,"  Roy  said.  "  I  ought  to  make  Estelle 
walk — except  that  she'd  curl  up  and  die  at  the  thought  of 
it."  He  wiped  his  wet  forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  I  rather  like  it,"  said  Rita.  "  There's  a  bunch  of  pine 
trees  a  little  farther  on  that  go  down  to  the  lake.  We  might 
sit  down  and  rest  for  a  while." 

They  walked  across  the  crackling  pine  needles  to  the  edge 
of  the  water,  and  sat  down,  leaning  against  tree  trunks. 
There  was  a  light  breeze  from  the  lake;  the  smell  of  the 
pines  cleared  the  air  and  made  it  seem  cooler.  Roy  leaned 
over  and  patted  Rita's  hand.  "  Nice  kid,"  he  said.  Rita 
looked  at  him ;  his  face  was  hot  and  dirty ;  his  khaki  trousers 
were  streaked  with  dust.  He  lighted  his  pipe  and  leaned 
back  peacefully.  His  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  and  his  soft 
shirt  was  open  over  his  brown  throat;  Rita  felt  a  sudden 
tenderness  towards  him,  a  pity  that  he  was  married  to 
Estelle.  He  was  not  her  sort  of  person;  Estelle  was  so 
wholly  artificial  and  stupid.  Her  mother  was  different; 
Lilias,  in  a  way,  was  artificial,  but  she  was  warm,  alive. 
Rita  respected  her  mother,  as  she  thought  of  the  two  women ; 
her  mother  was  not  perfect — she  was  far  from  perfect — but 
her  emotions  were  all  honest,  sincere. 

She  sighed;  the  whole  world  about  her  was  fragrant  and 
pleasant;  the  smell  of  Roy's  pipe,  the  pines,  the  earth  and 


8o  PROLOGUE 

sunshine,  the  dust,  even  their  hot  bodies.  She  thought  of 
Wells — The  New  Macchiavell — "  the  jolly  smell  of  things  ". 
And  Mr.  Polly  who  whistled,  although  it  was  singing  he 
meant.  Perhaps  she  was  growing  up;  perhaps  after  three 
years,  relief  and  a  kind  permanency  were  coming;  she  was 
happier  than  she  had  been  since  the  winter  with  Aunt  Helen. 

"  Pretty  thoughtful,"  said  Roy. 

"  Yes.    And  happy,  Roy." 

He  leaned  against  the  tree  trunk  and  blew  out  wavering 
rings  of  smoke.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  next  winter, 
Rita?  "  he  asked.  "  School?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  yes,  school,  I  suppose. 
Mother  has  shipped  me  off  to  boarding-schools  these  last 
few  years — I  didn't  learn  much,  of  course.  I'm  thinking  of 
getting  a  tutor  this  winter  and  really  studying — preparing 
for  college." 

"  You  want  to  go  to  college?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Roy.  Not  really.  I'm  too  young  to 
work — I  don't  know  what  I  want.  I — it's  difficult  being 
young." 

"  Yes.    How  old  are  you,  Rita?  " 

"  Sixteen."  He  did  not  answer,  and  Rita  looked  out  at 
the  lake.  Some  of  the  old,  unsettled  feeling  came  back; 
sixteen  years  old  .  .  »  "  I  hate  to  talk  about  myself,"  she 
said,  and  then  smiled  in  answer  to  his  grin.  "  Of  course  I 
don't — I  love  it.  But,  oh,  I  feel  so  stupid  and  useless  when 
I  talk  about  me.  I  don't  know  anything  and  I  don't  show 
any  signs  of  learning.  I  don't  know  what  I  want  in  life. 
I  don't  want  to  marry.  I've  seen — "  She  broke  off 
abruptly. 


PROLOGUE  81 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Roy  said.  They  sat  quietly  again  for 
a  moment. 

"  It  won't  be  bad  for  you  to  be  in  New  York,"  he  said 
at  last.  "  It's  a  big  city,  and  filled  with  about  every  idea 
in  the  world.  I  think  you'll  like  it.  It's  a  good  place  to 
find  yourself.  Are  you  interested  in  anything  in  par- 
ticular? " 

"  Writing,  I  guess.  I  don't  know.  I  write  abominably. 
I  like  to  read  stuff  and  criticize  it — I'd  like  to  be  an  editor. 
But  there's  little  chance  of  that." 

"  I  think  there's  chance  for  anything,  when  you're  young. 
Youth — oh,  but  you're  tired  to  death  of  hearing  people  talk 
about  youth.  It's  hideous,  of  course,  while  you've  got  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rita.  "  But  I  think  I  may  like  it,  Roy- 
being  young — as  soon  as  I'm  settled  a  little.  You're  nice 
to  talk  with  me." 

"  Rot." 

They  were  quiet  again;  the  evening  was  settling  down; 
it  was  as  though  dusk  had  caught  in  the  tree  tops  and  then 
fallen  about  them  suddenly.  Rita  jumped  to  her  feet. 

"  We've  got  to  go  back  or  we'll  be  late  for  dinner,"  she 
said.  She  turned  toward  the  road,  and  Roy  joined  her. 
They  walked  home  silently. 

They  were  late  in  reaching  the  house,  and  Lilias  greeted 
them  impatiently.  "  Hurry  and  get  dressed,  Rita,"  she 
said.  "  You  ought  not  to  stay  out  so  long.  Dinner  is 
ready.  Didn't  either  you  or  Roy  take  a  watch?  " 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said.    He  followed  Rita  upstairs. 

Rita  dressed  quickly,  and  came  downstairs  a  few  minutes 
after  Roy. 


82  PROLOGUE 

"We  had  a  nice  walk,"  Rita  said,  as  she  sat  down  be- 
tween Roy  and  her  father. 

"  Evidently,"  Lilias  said.  "  You  almost  forgot  to  come 
home." 

Rita  looked  up  at  her  mother  wearily.  After  dinner  her 
father  brought  out  the  chess-board,  and  Rita  sat  beside 
them.  When  the  game  was  finally  finished,  her  father  and 
Roy  rose  to  go  out  on  the  piazza. 

"  Rita,  can't  you  leave  the  men  alone  a  minute?  "  her 
mother  asked,  as  Rita  stood  up  to  follow  them. 

Rita  flushed. 

"  Coming,  Rita?  "  her  father  called. 

Rita  wavered  uncertainly.  "  I'm  tired,"  she  called  back. 
"  I'm  going  to  bed." 

"  Good-night,  then,  dear,"  said  Estelle. 

"  Good-night."  Rita  looked  at  her  mother  angrily  for 
a  moment  before  she  went  upstairs.  She  undressed  and 
lighted  the  reading  lamp  by  her  bed,  paused  for  a  while 
before  her  book-case.  Then  she  chose  "  Wuthering 
Heights";  and  settled  herself  comfortably  against  the  pil- 
lows. 

The  next  day  was  dark  and  rainy,  and  the  day  that  fol- 
lowed was  broken  by  thunder  showers.  The  third  day 
broke,  shadowed  by  a  gray  sky,  with  swollen  clouds  that 
opened  spasmodically  to  let  down  sheets  of  rain.  The  five 
people  in  the  house  were  restless;  Estelle  and  Lilias  were 
irritable;  Webster  Moreland  was  gloomy.  Roy  read 
steadily;  Rita  did  not  care  to  talk  with  him  under  the  eyes 
of  her  mother.  He  was  anxious  to  be  out  for  the  last  days 
of  his  vacation;  his  tan  was  paling  within  the  house. 


PROLOGUE  83 

"  Oh,  Lord,  I  can't  stand  this!  "  Rita  said  indignantly, 
turning  from  the  window  where  she  had  been  standing. 
"  I'm  going  out." 

"  I'm  going,  too,"  Roy  said  quickly. 

They  put  on  sweaters  and  stepped  out  into  the  rain.  The 
trees  were  so  heavy  with  moisture  that  they  leaned  drunk- 
enly;  the  grass  was  flattened.  They  walked  down  the  slip- 
pery path  to  the  lake  and  stood  on  the  wet  sand,  watching 
the  dark  water  swallow  the  rain  drops  that  fell  silently  on 
its  surface.  From  the  south  came  the  rumble  of  thunder, 
and  lightning  tore  through  the  sodden  sky. 

"It's  glorious,  though,"  Rita  said.  "After  that  stuffy 
room — don't  you  love  it,  Roy?  " 

"  Yes." 

They  stood  uncertainly,  the  rain  beating  upon  their 
upturned  faces.  As  Rita  looked  about  the  lake,  she  caught 
sight  of  a  great  fish,  tossing  back  and  forth  in  the  water 
at  the  edge  of  the  shore. 

"  Look,  Roy!  " 

"  We'll  catch  him,"  Roy  said.  "  Advanced  school  of 
fishing — come  on,  Rita."  He  broke  off  a  long  twig,  and 
they  raced  across  the  wet  sand.  The  water  drew  the  fish 
back,  tossed  him  temptingly  near  again,  rolled  him  over  and 
over,  his  white  belly  gleaming.  The  wind  blew  in  their 
faces,  and  they  panted  breathlessly. 

"  I'm  going  to  get  him,"  Rita  said  defiantly.  Her  cheeks 
were  flaming,  and  her  green  eyes  were  bright  in  the  gray 
of  the  storm.  She  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  pulled  off  her 
shoes  and  stockings,  tucked  up  her  skirts.  She  waded  out 
and  the  water  of  the  lake  was  cool  and  tingling  on  her  legs. 


84  PROLOGUE 

As  she  leaned  over,  the  wind  blew  a  wave  towards  the  shore, 
and  she  was  drenched,  but  she  straightened  up  with  the  fish 
clasped  to  her  bosom.  "  He's  dead,  I  guess.  And  slippery 
— quick,  Roy,  I'm  going  to  drop  him!  " 

Roy  stepped  into  the  water,  shoes  and  all,  and  held  out 
his  hands;  Rita  stumbled  towards  him  and  he  caught  her. 

"  Gee,  he's  a  big  boy!  "  Roy  said. 

"  We'll  bring  him  up  to  the  kitchen."  She  tucked  her 
wet  stockings  in  her  sneakers  and  they  started  up  the  path. 
Her  wet  clothes  clung  to  her  slim  body;  her  hair  was  dark, 
plastered  against  her  face.  Through  the  kitchen  they  came 
into  the  living-room;  it  was  hot  and  stifling;  only  the 
grayness  and  damp  from  outside  had  come  in;  the  excite- 
ment and  glory  of  the  storm  did  not  exist.  Rita  was  still 
panting. 

"  Oh,  we  caught  a  perfect  whale  of  a  fish!  "  she  said. 
«  Roy— » 

Lilias  and  Estelle  looked  up. 

"  Go  to  your  room,  Rita,"  her  mother  said. 

"  I  guess  I  am  pretty  wet  and  dirty,"  Rita  admitted. 
"  My  land,  but  it  was  fun,  though!  You  poor  people  here 
in  the  house — " 

"  Go  upstairs,  Rita." 

Rita's  eyes  were  still  shining  as  she  sat  down  before  her 
mirror  and  began  to  unfasten  her  wet  blouse.  It  clung  to 
the  curves  of  her  breasts,  and  she  looked  at  it  in  dismay 
for  a  minute;  then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders — after  all, 
it  was  no  more  immodest  than  her  one-piece  bathing  suit. 
Her  mother  had  seemed  annoyed;  perhaps  it  was  at  that. 

The  door  of  her  room  opened  and  Lilias  Moreland  came 


PROLOGUE  85 

in.  "  Rita,  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self! " 

"  Ashamed — why,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

Lilias  laughed.  "  Of  course  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  have 
come  out  on  the  piazza  when  I  did,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"  You  get  such  a  good  view  of  the  lake — Estelle  remarked 
on  it." 

Rita's  hands  fell  to  her  lap.  "  You  may  as  well  tell  me 
what  you  mean,  Mother,"  she  said.  "  I  have  no  idea.", 

"  I  mean,"  her  mother  said,  "  that  you  have  no  business 
flirting  with  a  married  man." 

"  Flirting  with— Mother!  " 

Lilias  tapped  the  edge  of  the  dressing-table  impatiently. 
"  My  dear  child,  we  saw  you  in  his  arms." 

"Why,  you  did  not!  "  Rita  said  indignantly,  and  then 
remembered.  "  Oh,  Roy  pulled  me  out  of  the  water,  if 
that's  what  you  mean." 

"  Isn't  that  putting  it  rather  mildly,  Rita?  You  know 
you're  not  a  child  any  more — you're  a  fully  developed 
woman.  And  as  I  remember — of  course  I  can  ask  Estelle — 
you  were  showing  quite  a  bit  of  bare  leg.  I  don't  know 
what—" 

Rita  rose  to  her  feet  and  stared  at  her  mother.  "  I'm 
not  perfectly  sure  that  I  want  to  take  my  lessons  in  morality 
from  you,"  she  said  clearly.  Lilias  flushed.  "  Of  course 
I  know  that  you  can't  possibly  understand  such  a  thing  as 
friendship  between  a  man  and  a  woman.  I  don't  care  to 
explain  it  to  you.  Had  you  just  as  soon  leave  me  alone?  " 

She  locked  the  door  of  her  room  as  her  mother  went  out, 
and  turned,  leaning  against  the  door. 


86  PROLOGUE 

"  Rita!  "  Her  mother  was  calling  from  the  hall.  "  Rita! 
Rita,  are  you  listening  to  me?  " 

Rita  did  not  move. 

"  Perhaps  I  did  misunderstand,  Rita.  I  wish — Rita,  are 
you  listening?  "  Finally  Lilias  went  downstairs  and  Rita 
continued  undressing  slowly,  slipped  into  a  negligee.  She  sat 
quietly  at  her  dressing-table  until  Annie  came  upstairs  and 
knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Lunch  is  ready,  Miss  Rita." 

"  I'm  not  feeling  well,  thank  you,  Annie.  I  don't  care 
for  any." 

She  sat  on  the  bed,  hardly  able  to  think  in  her  anger. 
She  heard  them  talking  and  laughing  downstairs;  then  the 
sounds  of  chairs  being  moved  back.  She  hated  women — 
hated  them!  She  crossed  to  the  window-seat  and  sat,  look- 
ing out.  The  sun  had  broken  through  the  clouds  and  the 
wet  grass  glistened.  Bobby  was  waiting  on  the  tennis 
court,  and  presently  she  saw  Roy  go  down.  He  walked 
slowly  along  the  path,  and  the  sun  caught  in  his  fair  hair 
and  turned  it  to  gold ;  his  shoulders  were  broad.  She  turned 
unhappily  from  the  window.  Did  Roy  think  she  had  flirted 
with  him?  He  couldn't  have  thought  that — she  was  sure 
he  couldn't  have.  But  Estelle  and  her  mother  did  ... 
Oh,  she  hated  women! 

She  picked  up  a  book  and  read  a  few  pages,  but  she 
had  turned  by  chance  to  the  love  story  in  it.  She  threw  it 
aside  indignantly  and  lay  down  on  the  bed.  Why  did 
they  have  to  spoil  her  friendship  with  Roy?  Why  .  .  . 

She  bit  the  end  of  her  finger  thoughtfully.  Perhaps  it 
wasn't  going  to  spoil  things.  Perhaps  .  .  .  She  thought  of 


PROLOGUE  87 

the  long  talk  they  had  had  in  the  grove  by  the  lake,  and 
how  she  had  leaned  lazily  against  a  tree,  looking  at  him. 
She  liked  to  look  at  Roy;  he  had  a  pleasant  face,  with 
friendly  eyes  and  a  mouth  that  smiled.  Roy  .  .  .  She 
closed  her  eyes,  and  burrowed  her  face  deep  in  the  pillow. 

She  must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  she  was  roused  suddenly 
by  her  mother's  voice.  "  Rita,  haven't  you  acted  like  a 
child  long  enough?  Will  you  come  downstairs?  " 

Rita  did  not  answer  until  she  caught  the  note  of  alarm 
in  her  mother's  voice  as  she  called  again.  There  was  no 
use  in  having  her  break  open  the  door. 

"  I'm  not  coming  down,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  It's  dinner-time,"  said  Lilias. 

Rita  realized  suddenly  that  she  was  hungry,  but  she  did 
not  answer.  Her  mother  went  downstairs.  She  heard  foot- 
steps; the  Warrens  and  her  father  were  dressing  for  dinner. 
Then  more  footsteps  and  Annie's  voice. 

"  Miss  Rita,  your  mother  said  you  didn't  want  any  dinner, 
but  I've  brought  you  a  tray.  Won't  you  try  to  eat 
some?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Annie."  She  opened  the  door,  and  thanked 
God  for  Annie's  lack  of  daintiness;  there  was  enough  food 
for  three  sick  people,  and  she  ate  it  all  ravenously. 

Outside  it  was  growing  dark.  Rita's  anger  was  cooling; 
after  all,  there  was  no  use  in  expecting  anything  from 
women,  and  she  was  growing  more  and  more  bored.  She 
read  for  a  time  and  wrote  several  letters.  Then  she  went 
back  to  the  window.  The  houses  across  the  lake  were 
lighted,  and  there  were  trails  of  light  across  the  water  like 
dozens  of  moon-paths.  She  heard  the  occasional  noise  of 


88  PROLOGUE 

automobiles.  Their  own  car  drew  up  at  the  house  and  her 
mother  and  Estelle  Warren  got  in.  Of  course — they  were 
going  to  Mrs.  Barton's  bridge  party.  Women!  Rita  smiled. 
For  a  moment  longer  she  sat  there;  then  suddenly  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  hurried  over  to  her  dressing-table,  snapped 
on  the  light. 

She  was  wearing  a  negligee  of  pale  yellow  that  bared  her 
neck  and  arms.  She  opened  her  jewelry-box  and  clasped  a 
string  of  orange  beads  around  her  neck,  coiled  her  hair  on 
her  head.  There  were  nasturtiums  in  a  blue  bowl  on  her 
table ;  she  pinned  three  of  them  above  either  ear.  Then  she 
stared  at  herself,  smiling.  She  heard  steps  on  the  stairs 
and  she  powdered  her  nose  quickly.  It  was  only  Annie, 
taking  away  the  tray.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
rubbed  the  lip  stick  over  her  mouth,  lighted  a  cigarette. 
The  house  was  still.  She  sat,  looking  at  her  reflection,  wait- 
ing. Steps  on  the  stairs;  in  the  hallway  .  .  . 

"  Rita!  " 

She  opened  the  door  slowly,  and  faced  Roy. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry.    I'm — oh,  damn  women,  anyway." 

Rita  smiled.  He  was  staring  at  her.  "  Don't  say  that," 
she  said  quietly.  "  I'm  a  woman,  you  know." 

She  knew  that  until  then  she  had  not  been  a  woman  to 
him;  she  was  sure  now  that  Roy  had  known  she  was  not 
flirting.  But  it  did  not  matter — now.  .  .  .  He  put  his 
hand  on  the  edge  of  the  door  and  smiled.  "  I'm  sorry  you 
weren't  at  dinner,"  he  said.  "  I  missed  you." 

"  Did  you?  "  Rita  hated  herself,  as  she  looked  up  at 
him,  but  her  heart  was  pounding  pleasantly  and  she  felt 
warm  and  excited. 


PROLOGUE  89 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  much?  " 

He  was  smiling  uncertainly,  as  though  he  did  not  want  to 
smile,  stroking  the  edge  of  the  door  with  his  hand.  For  a 
moment  Rita  felt  almost  sorry  for  him.  If  she  said  good- 
night now,  he  would  forget.  She  hummed  quietly  and 
smiled. 

"  Rita  ..." 

"  Roy!  "  She  was  mocking  him  now;  she  saw  him  bite 
his  lip  as  though  to  steady  himself. 

"  Rita,  I—" 

She  laughed. 

"  I — oh,  damn  it!  "  He  stepped  forward  and  put  his 
arms  about  her  shoulders,  drew  her  close  to  him. 

Rita  trembled  slightly;  she  could  feel  his  heart  pounding, 
too.  "  Damn  what?  "  she  asked  idly,  her  mouth  near  his. 
She  looked  up  at  his  eyes;  then  her  lids  dropped  as  his 
mouth  pressed  against  hers.  She  had  read  that  a  woman 
closes  her  eyes  when  she  is  kissed,  but  she  had  never  known 
why  before.  .  .  .  Finally  he  released  her,  and  caught  her 
in  his  arms  again. 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other. 

"Oh,  Rita!  " 

Her  breath  caught;  she  moved  towards  him.  Then  she 
held  out  her  hand.  "  Good-night,  Roy." 

"  Oh,  Rita — but  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I — "  He  was 
bending  towards  her,  not  quite  smiling,  and  yet  his  mouth 
was  curved  into  what  should  have  been  a  smile. 

"  Good-night,  Roy." 

"  Good-night."    He  bent  over  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 


90  PROLOGUE 

Rita  closed  the  door  softly,  relocked  it.    Then  she  threw 
herself  on  the  bed  and  began  to  cry  quietly. 

II 

More  than  anything  else,  she  wanted  to  get  away  from 
her  mother  and  Roy  until  she  could  think  things  out  for 
herself.  She  wrote  to  Janet,  and  asked  if  she  might  visit 
her.  The  letter  that  came  back  was  enthusiastic,  and  Rita 
packed  her  things  with  a  mingling  of  eagerness  and  reluc- 
tance. Schoolgirls  and  schoolgirl  affairs  seemed  dull,  after 
Roy. 

Breakfast,  after  that  evening,  had  been  intolerable.  She 
had  felt  that  everyone's  eyes  were  on  her — everyone's  but 
Roy's — and  his  were  too  obviously  elsewhere.  He  had  tried 
to  talk  with  her,  and  she  had  kept  away  from  him.  She  had 
no  idea  what  she  wanted;  she  had  almost  convinced  her- 
self that  she  wanted  Roy  to  think  of  her  as  a  little  girl 
again,  until  she  discovered  that  she  was  still  carefully  arrang- 
ing her  hair  on  the  top  of  her  head,  still  choosing  the  dresses 
that  made  her  look  oldest.  She  was  a  little  ashamed  when 
she  had  to  admit  to  herself  that  she  did  not  want  him  to 
think  her  a  little  girl. 

When  they  went  swimming — Lilias  and  Estelle,  Roy  and 
her  father,  she  had  swum  far  beyond  the  float  and  Roy 
had  joined  her.  She  was  slim  and  attractive  in  her  green 
bathing  suit,  with  her  red  hair  hidden  by  the  green 
cap. 

"  Rita,  won't  you  talk  with  me?  "  he  asked,  swimming  up 
to  her. 


PROLOGUE  91 

"  I  can't,  Roy." 

"  But,  Rita—" 

Laughing,  she  dived  into  the  water,  and  turned  a  somer- 
sault, swam  quickly  back  towards  her  mother  and  Estelle. 
She  wanted  to  talk  with  him — but  she  was  afraid. 

The  day  before  Roy  and  Estelle  went  home,  she  left 
Larchborough  to  visit  Janet. 

"  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  good-bye,  Rita,"  Roy  said,  after 
her  mother  and  Estelle  had  kissed  her.  Rita  tried  not  to 
flush,  and  looked  up  at  him  bravely.  It  was  not  a  success 
as  a  kiss;  they  were  both  frightened,  and  Rita's  lips  trem- 
bled as  his  mouth  brushed  hers. 

"  Good-bye,  Roy,"  she  said  lightly.  "  Bye,  family."  She 
stepped  into  the  car  and  leaned  back  against  the  seat.  She 
wondered  if  her  mother  and  Estelle  had  noticed ;  her  cheeks 
were  flaming.  The  train  trip  was  interminable,  but  finally 
she  reached  the  station,  and  found  Janet  waiting  on  the 
platform. 

The  Crosbys  had  a  summer  cottage  about  twenty  miles 
south  of  Boston;  a  town  with  a  country  club  and  a  fash- 
ionable population.  Janet  was  growing  up  rapidly,  and  her 
mother  wanted  her  to  have  every  advantage  in  the  choice  of 
a  husband. 

"  There's  a  nice  kid  staying  with  Phil  Burns,"  Janet  said, 
as  the  two  girls,  in  white  skirts  and  striped  "  blazers  ", 
walked  along  the  road  towards  the  ice-cream  store.  "  Don- 
ald Wells." 

"  What!  "  Rita  said  excitedly.  "  Donald  Wells?  He's 
my  cousin,  Jan!  I  haven't  seen  him  for — where  is  he? 
When  can  I  see  him?  "  She  was  suddenly  jealous  of  Janet; 


92  PROLOGUE 

jealous  of  anyone  who  thought  her  Donald  a  "  nice  kid  ". 

"He'll  probably  be  at  the  ice-cream  place,"  Janet  said 
casually,  and  another  wave  of  jealousy  came  over  Rita.  So 
Janet  was  interested  in  him,  too;  knew  where  he  would  be! 

He  was  sitting  at  a  table  in  the  shop,  alone,  eating  an 
elaborate  "  banana  split ",  and  he  stood  up  as  they  came 
in.  He  wore  long  trousers  and  looked  grown-up  and  hand- 
some. 

"  H'lo,  Jan." 

"  H'lo,  Donald." 

Rita  appeared  behind  Janet  and  smiled.  "  Hello,  Don- 
ald," she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Rita  Moreland!  "  He  shook  her  hand  violently.  "  Gee, 
I  never  expected  to  see  you  here!  " 

"  Rita's  visiting  me,"  Janet  said.  "  You  never  told  me 
that  Rita  was  your  cousin — you  never  mentioned  her  at 
all." 

"  I  never  knew  you  knew  each  other.  She  isn't  really 
my  cousin.  Gee!  " 

They  ordered  ice-creams  and  sat  together,  talking.  Janet 
had  a  strawberry-walnut-marshmallow-with-a-cherry,  and 
Rita,  because  she  did  not  know  much  about  the  sundaes 
that  her  generation  was  reveling  in,  had  the  same.  She 
noticed  that  Donald  was  not  wearing  the  ring  she  had  given 
him  four  years  before;  she  put  her  hands  in  her  lap  and 
pulled  off  his  ring,  tied  it  to  the  corner  of  her  handkerchief. 
The  conversation  was  inadequate ;  there  were  so  many  things 
she  wanted  to  tell  Donald  and  ask  him  that  she  could  think 
of  none  of  them.  And  then  there  was  Janet.  But  Donald 
did  not  seem  to  mind  that  . 


PROLOGUE  93 

"  You  might  come  up  tonight  and  see  us,"  suggested 
Janet. 

"  Sure — I'd  like  to."  They  said  good-bye  and  started 
back  towards  the  Crosby  home. 

Luck  was  on  Rita's  side  that  evening,  in  the  form  of 
visiting  relatives  who  wanted  to  talk  to  Janet,  so  she  and 
Donald  sat  together  on  the  piazza.  After  Rita  had  asked 
about  the  family,  there  fell  a  silence. 

"  You've  grown  pretty,"  Donald  said  awkwardly. 

Rita,  with  her  newly  found  sophistication,  had  dressed 
carefully  in  a  frock  that  was  most  becoming,  that  made  her 
young  figure  most  attractive.  Yet  she  was  disappointed  in 
Donald  for  noticing.  She  didn't  want  .  .  . 

"  Wasn't  I  always?  "  she  asked  lightly  but  her  heart  sank. 
Was  Donald,  then,  like  Bobby  and  every  other  young  boy; 
couldn't  they  be  good  friends,  as  they  had  promised  to  be 
long  before? 

"  Prettier,  then/'  said  Donald,  thinking  to  himself  that 
all  girls  were  vain  as  peacocks. 

"  Oh,  Donald!  "  said  Rita.  "  Don't  let's  talk  like  damn 
fools — "  He  started  a  little  at  her  words,  but  she  kept 
on  relentlessly.  "  Why  do  we  have  to  be  stupid  and  silly 
and  talk  about  things  we  aren't  interested  in?  It's  so  long 
since  we've  seen  each  other,  and  we  used  to  be  such  good 
friends." 

"  WTe're  still  friends,  aren't  we?  w  asked  Donald.  "  Wonder 
how  long  those  old  hens  are  going  to  keep  Jan  in 
there?  " 

"  I'll  go  and  see,"  Rita  said  wearily.  \Vhen  she  came 
out,  Janet  was  with  her. 


94  PROLOGUE 

III 

August  26th,  1914. 
DEAR  ROY: 

I'm  bored — bored — bored.  It  seems  as  though  I  hated 
everything.  And  people — oh,  my  God!  You  remember  I 
told  you  about  Donald  Wells,  my  cousin  I'm  so  very  fond 
of?  We  used  to  have  such  nice  talks  together.  I  just 
met  him,  and  he  is  a  silly  boy  who  bores  me  to  tears — and 
whom  I  bore  much  more.  Oh,  Roy! 

It's  no  fun  being  young — no  fun  at  all. 

It  was  fun  with  you  at  Larchborough.  You  don't  know 
how  happy  I  was.  And,  Roy,  I  couldn't  talk  to  you  then, 
I  just  couldn't  stay.  Some  day  I  may  tell  you  why.  But — I 
don't  love  you,  you  know.  Oh,  Roy,  I'm  not  saying  virtu- 
ously that  you  love  your  wife — I  know  you  don't.  You 
couldn't.  But  it  isn't  me.  So  let's  just  forget  about  that 
as  much  as  we  can,  and  go  back  to  being  the  awfully  good 
friends  we  were?  Don't  make  me  lose  my  two  best  friends 
in  the  same  week — I'd  have  no  faith  in  anything  left. 

This  is  just  a  note — Janet  wants  me  to  go  over  and  eat 
another  sticky  sundae — I've  had  only  three  so  far  today — 
and  make  eyes  at  various  youths. 

Write  and  tell  me  that  life  is  just  a  bit  worth-while. 

As  ever, 

RITA. 

August  28th,  1914. 
DEAR  RITA: 

It  was  nice  to  hear  from  you,  and  I'm  not  sorry  for  you 
at  all.  I'm  glad  you're  bored — it's  good  for  you.  If  you 


PROLOGUE  95 

get  bored  enough,  you'll  stop  talking  about  it,  and  do  some- 
thing. There,  that's  not  very  pleasant,  is  it?  But  you 
must  remember  (and  so  must  I,  my  dear)  that  I'm  old 
enough  to  be  your  father,  and  my  words  of  wisdom  should 
be  respected  accordingly. 

Life  is  rather  unpleasant,  though — but  you're  not  going 
to  find  it  so.  I  won't  have  you.  You  see  I  love  you  very 
dearly,  little  Rita — mostly  a  great  big  pleasant  friendly  love. 
It's  nasty  that  you  have  to  write  me  at  my  office,  all  marked 
up  with  "  personal  "  on  the  envelope,  but  there's  ever  and 
always  the  old  bugbear  of  what  people  will  say.  We  really 
care  more  for  that  than  for  anything  else.  Although  you, 
with  your  "  what-will-be-will-be "  creed  probably  don't 
believe  it.  But  you  just  denied  it  yourself,  child — think  a 
little. 

I'm  sorry  about  Donald,  but  he's  going  through  a  difficult 
age.  He  was  probably  embarrassed  to  death.  Remember 
that  the  last  time  he  saw  you,  you  were  a  little  girl.  Think 
how  you  embarrassed  me,  and  I'm  a  good  ten  years  and 
more  older  than  he  is.  He'll  outgrow  it  and  you'll  get  to 
be  friends.  I'm  a  little  jealous  of  him  for  fear  you  will 
talk  to  him  instead  of  to  me,  when  he  is  a  human  being  again. 

When  people  are  adolescent — as  you  and  Donald  are, 
Rita  dear — you  aren't  quite  human.  There  are  about  five 
years  when  you're  quite  impossible.  There,  will  you  ever 
write  to  me  again?  I  don't  mind  that  you're  adolescent, 
you  know.  I  rather  like  it.  But  life  is  pretty  hard,  then. 
I  remember  through  the  dim  past  the  days  when  I  was  your 
age. 

You've  got  life  ahead  of  you,  child,  and  you're  breaking 


96  PROLOGUE 

through  to  it.  And  just  a  few  weeks  ahead  of  you,  you 
have  New  York  and  dozens  of  new  people  and  ideas.  I 
think  you  haven't  much  more  of  this  terrific  floundering  and 
buffetting  ahead  of  you — like  our  poor  old  fish — remember? 

Don't  be  cross  with  me  for  this  patronizing  letter,  Rita 
dear.  And  write  to  me  again.  Here's  hoping  for  a  speedy 
entry  into  life  for  you,  child. 

Love  to  you,  my  dear, 

ROY. 

.IV 

She  had  said  good-bye  to  Janet  and  the  Crosbys,  to  Don- 
ald, and  she  was  at  last  on  the  Larchborough  train.  She 
looked  out  the  window  thoughtfully.  She  had  kept  Roy's 
letter  to  read  again  on  the  train  before  she  tore  it  up.  It 
had  been  good  to  hear  from  him.  She  read  it  through 
slowly,  and  leaned  back  against  the  dusty  red  seat. 

She  was  sixteen  years  old.  Ahead  of  her  were  years  and 
years  of  life,  new  friends,  new  ideas.  There  would  be  only 
a  few  weeks  of  Larchborough,  and  then  New  York. 

She  hardly  remembered  New  York ;  it  was  four  years  since 
she  had  lived  there.  New  York — a  great  new  city,  waiting 
for  her  to  come  and  pick  the  things  she  wanted. 

New  York  .  .  . 

For  the  moment,  youth  did  not  seem  intolerable  to  her, 
after  all. 


Part  Two 
CHAPTER  ONE 


RITA  sat  quietly  at  one  end  of  the  couch,  balancing  a  cup 
of  tea  in  one  hand  and  a  plate  of  sandwiches  in  the  other. 
She  looked  puzzled,  a  little  bewildered,  even,  but  it  was  not, 
as  her  father  standing  across  the  room,  thought,  because  her 
tea  was  cooling  and  her  sandwiches  slipping  perilously  near 
the  edge  of  her  plate.  She  had  forgotten  that  she  held 
them. 

September  had  come,  and  the  Morelands  had  left  the 
flaming  autumn  behind  them  in  Larchborough  and  had  gone 
to  New  York,  where  seasons  are  things  of  clothing  and 
temperature,  rather  than  of  color.  The  house  was  in  order 
at  last,  and  Lilias  was  giving  her  first  tea  of  the  season. 

The  living-room  was  crowded  with  people,  talking  quickly, 
interrupting  each  other,  laughing.  It  was  more  like  a 
kaleidoscope  than  anything  else,  Rita  decided,  a  kaleido- 
scope of  sound  instead  of  color.  Although  there  was  plenty 
of  color.  Bits  of  conversation  floated  towards  her  and 
whirled  past.  There  were  about  sixty  people  in  the  large 
room,  and  Rita  was  sure  that  they  were  talking  about  sixty 
different  things. 

97 


98  PROLOGUE 

"  This  is  your  introduction  to  New  York,  isn't  it? " 
the  man  who  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  couch  asked 
her. 

Rita  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  She  had  no  idea  who 
he  was;  a  rather  nice  looking,  pleasant  sort  of  person. 
"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  D'you  like  it?  " 

Rita  leaned  over  and  placed  her  cup  and  saucer  on  the 
table  before  she  answered.  "  Why — I  don't  know,"  she 
said.  "  It — it's  a  little  like  nature — New  York.  It  makes 
you  feel  so  unimportant.  And — " 

The  man  laughed  and  looked  at  Rita  again.  "  And  then 
again  it's  like  nature  because  it  can  make  you  feel  so  fright- 
fully important,"  he  said. 

"  Can  it?  "  Rita  looked  at  him  vaguely.  Phrases,  sen- 
tences, new  words,  were  still  being  tossed  about  the  room; 
the  tall,  dark  woman  standing  near  the  window  was  talking 
about  the  "little  theaters" — whatever  they  were;  the  man 
with  red  hair  and  a  rose-colored  tie  was  pounding  emphatic- 
ally upon  the  butterfly  table,  and  saying,  "  But  I  don't 
agree  with  you  at  all!  You  don't  understand  the  psychology 
of  it.  The — "  The  slender,  Burnes- Jones  girl  beside  him 
seemed  not  at  all  alarmed  by  his  violence. 

"  It's  really  a  small  town,"  the  man  on  the  couch  said. 
"  Or  no — it's  a  hundred — a  thousand — small  towns.  There's 
no  such  thing  as  New  York." 

Rita  laughed.  The  man  was  interesting;  she  would  like 
to  talk  about  New  York  with  him,  but  conversation  was 
impossible  to  her  at  that  moment.  He  probably  thought 
her  young  and  stupid — her  eyes  caught  on  a  woman  standing 


PROLOGUE  99 

near  the  French  window.  She  wore  no  hat,  and  her  hair 
was  like  a  Valkyrie's  in  a  thunder  storm. 

"Rita!  " 

She  looked  up  as  her  mother  and  a  young  woman  came 
towards  the  couch.  "  Rita  dear,  I  want  you  to  meet  Peggy 
Norris.  She — yes,  Mr.  Howe,  I'm  coming  right  over." 
She  hurried  across  the  room,  and  the  girl  sat  down  on  the 
couch. 

"  How's  the  world  treating  you  these  days,  Peg?  "  the 
man  who  had  been  talking  to  Rita  asked. 

"  Fine.  It  treats  me  better  than  it  does  a  lot  of  people, 
though.  I've  just  come  from  the  strike.  I've  been  doing 
a  story  about  it." 

"  Pretty  messy  down  there,  isn't  it?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  Messy?  It's  terrible.  The  conditions  those  people — " 
She  broke  off  and  laughed.  "  I've  just  promised  Jim  that 
I  wouldn't  orate  on  the  strike  any  more.  The  woman 
talking  to  Mr.  Mor eland — the  one  with  all  the  feathers — 
said  something  about  it,  and  I  burst  forth.  Then  I  dis- 
covered that  she  was  a  dyed-in-the-wool  capitalist — the  kind 
that's  a  Daughter  of  the  American  Revolution,  and  says 
that  if  this  country  was  good  enough  for  George  Washing- 
ton, it  ought  to  be  good  enough  for  a  few  dirty  foreigners, 
and — well,  blood  was  almost  let.  So  now  I'm  trying  to 
keep  to  tea  conversation — art,  literature,  fashions  and 
scandal." 

Rita  watched  her  while  she  spoke;  she  was  a  pretty  girl, 
young  and  boyish,  in  an  informal  sort  of  Norfolk  jacket 
suit,  with  wavy  brown  hair  clipped  short  like  a  man's.  She 
turned  toward  Rita  when  she  had  finished. 


ioo  PROLOGUE 

"  How  do  you  like  New  York?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  yet/'  Rita  repeated.  "  I  think  I'll  like 
it  as  soon  as  I  find  out  what  it  is." 

"  New  York's  a  joy,"  said  Peggy  Norris.  "  And  the  joy 
of  it  is  that  it's  whatever  you  want  it  to  be.  It  doesn't 
disappoint  anyone  who  knows  what  he  wants.  You're  going 
to  school  here?  " 

"  I'm  tutoring  this  year,"  said  Rita.  "  I've  been  in  young 
ladies'  finishing  schools  for  the  last  three  years.  Now  I'm 
going  to  college." 

"Good."  Peggy  Norris  had  a  curious  air  of  authority; 
Rita  decided  that  she  was  not  much  over  twenty.  "  Colum- 
bia? " 

"I  don't  know.    I—" 

"Rita,  dear!  "  Lilias  came  across  the  room  again;  she 
was  lovely  in  her  yellow  dress,  with  a  fan  of  orange  feathers 
drooping  from  her  hand.  "  I  want  you  to  come  over  here 
and  meet  Martha  Webb.  You'll  excuse  us,  won't  you, 
Peggy? "  She  nodded,  and  Rita  followed  her  mother 
obediently.  "  This  little  Martha  Webb  is  an  awfully  inter- 
esting girl,  Rita,"  her  mother  continued.  "  She's  only 
nineteen,  and  she's  making  a  hundred  dollars  a  week  or  so, 
writing  captions  and  things  for  moving  pictures.  She — " 
They  had  crossed  the  room  and  come  to  a  corner  where  two 
girls  sat  chatting  on  the  day-bed.  "  Miss  Webb,  this  is 
my  daughter,  Rita.  And  Miss  O'Day."  Again  Rita  shook 
hands  gravely,  and  sat  down. 

Martha  Webb  looked  less  like  a  business  woman  than 
anything  Rita  could  imagine.  She  was  more  slender  than 
Rita  herself,  and  there  was  a  look  of  helplessness  in  her 


PROLOGUE  101 

brown  eyes.  Her  face  was  spattered  with  freckles^  a  singu- 
larly youthful,  almost  childish  face. 

"  I'm  glad  to  know  you,  Miss  Moreland,"  she  said,  and 
her  voice,  too,  was  amazing.  It  was  full  and  rich,  curiously 
mature  for  its  freckled  owner.  "  We're  talking  about 
clothes.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  more  eatable  than  this 
dress  of  Lucy's?  " 

Rita  looked  at  Miss  O'Day's  dress  and  said  that  she  never 
had.  "  It's  not  a  dress,  is  it?  "  she  agreed.  "  It's  a  crea- 
tion." 

Miss  O'Day  smiled,  and  patted  the  ruffles — they  were 
almost  petals — of  pink  and  white  and  lavender.  "  And  all 
by  virtue  of  having  a  rich  sister  who  never  buys  clothes  that 
are  becoming  to  her,"  she  said.  "  My  poor  but  honest 
labors  could  never  bring  me  anything  like  this." 

"  I  suppose  everyone  has  asked  you  how  you  like  New 
York?  "  said  Martha  Webb. 

"  Everyone,"  Rita  answered  gravely.  "  And  to  everyone, 
I  have  to  say  that  I  don't  know." 

"  I  hate  it,"  said  Lucy  O'Day,    "  It—" 

Miss  Webb's  hand  was  pressed  firmly  over  her  mouth. 
"  Would  you  ever  imagine,"  she  asked  Rita,  "  that  any- 
thing as  pretty  and  as  dear  as  Lucy  could  ever  have 
grouches?  Grouches,  did  I  say?  Real  spasms  of  sticky 
Russian  gloom.  New  York  is — oh,  it's  heavenly.  It's 
both  ends  of  the  rainbow  and  the  middle  with  all  the  colors 
festooned  prettily  about  the  gold  crocks.  It's — " 

"  Dirty  and  cruel  and — "  Lucy  O'Day  laughed  as 
Martha's  hand  pressed  down  again. 

"  It  seems  to  be  awfully  full  of  people,"  said  Rita.    "  I 


102  PROLOGUE 

mean  not  just  inhabitants — people.  I'm  still  confused  and 
bewildered  at  it  all.  I — " 

"  It's  just  because  you're  getting  us  en  masse,"  Martha 
Webb  said.  "  It  seems  as  though  people  always  got  their 
introductions  to  New  York  at  teas.  And  teas — with  all 
due  respect  to  your  mother  and  to  us  who  gallop  to  every 
tea  she  invites  us  to — are  the  lowest  form  of  human  life. 
Just  as  you  get  started  talking  with  someone  you're  grabbed 
away,  and — what  did  I  tell  you?  "  She  rose  as  a  man  came 
towards  her.  "  Miss  Moreland,  I  want  you  to  meet  John 
Cook — I  should  have  said  it  the  other  way  'round,  I  guess. 
I'm  rotten  on  introductions."  She  smiled  at  Rita.  "  Miss 
Moreland,  your  education  is  not  complete  until  you  have  met 
John  Cook.  He's  the  world's  greatest  dancer,  and  makes 
love  more  prettily  and  fluently — " 

"  Martie,  be  still.  Miss  Moreland,  for  years  this  woman 
has  refused  to  take  me  seriously.  She — " 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  taken  seriously?  "  asked  Rita, 
and  Martha  and  Miss  O'Day  laughed  merrily. 

"  From  the  start  they're  on  to  you,  Johnny!  "  Miss 
O'Day  said.  "  Young  and  old —  Of  course  he  doesn't," 
she  said  to  Rita. 

"  I've  come  to  take  you  over  to  be  introduced  to  Nichols," 
Cook  said  to  Miss  Webb.  "He  says  he's  been  trying  to 
meet  you  for  the  last  six  months,  and — " 

"  Heavens,  is  my  hat  on  straight?  "  gasped  Miss  Webb. 
"  This  man  may  be  my  future  boss  some  day,"  she  explained 
to  Rita.  "  He  doesn't  know  it  yet,  of  course,  but  I've  had 
my  eye  on  him  for  some  time.  In  case  I  don't  see  you 
again,  please  come  down  to  tea  some  day — any  Thurs- 


PROLOGUE  103 

day  afternoon.  I'm  in  the  telephone  book.  I —  Good- 
bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  Lucy  O'Day  and  Rita  said  together. 

"  Isn't  she  a  darling?  "  asked  Miss  O'Day.  "  She's  just 
as  clever  as  she  can  be,  and — well  she's  so  clever  that  you 
never  even  notice  it.  Everyone  adores  Martie.  And  you 
really  must  come  down  to  tea  with  us  some  Thursday — I'm 
uptown  now,  but  I'm  going  to  move  down  to  Martie's  place 
in  a  week  or  so." 

"  I'd  love  to,"  Rita  said. 

"  Come  next  Thursday,"  said  Miss  O'Day.  "  It's  on 
my  way  to  stop  here — I'll  call  for  you  at  four  or  half- 
past." 

Rita  smiled  gratefully.  She  was  wondering  what  Lucy 
O'Day  did,  and  was  surprised  to  find  herself  wondering. 
Perhaps  in  New  York,  you  took  it  for  granted  that  every- 
one did  something;  even  Miss  O'Day,  ridiculously  feminine 
and  fluffy  in  her  rich  sister's  dress,  would  not  have  surprised 
Rita  by  admitting  that  she  was  a  coal-heaver. 

"  Rita!  "    Lilias  was  calling  again. 

"  Won't  you  come  along?  "  Rita  asked  Miss  O'Day. 

"  I'm  going  to  run  over  and  gossip  with  Peg  Norris," 
Lucy  O'Day  said.  "  I'll  see  you  again  before  I  leave." 

As  Rita  crossed  the  room,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
reflection  in  the  long  mirror  between  the  windows.  Her 
dark  blue  silk  dress  fitted  her  nicely,  and  the  green  maline 
wrapped  about  her  shoulders  emphasized  her  red  hair.  She 
smiled,  and  was  still  smiling  when  she  reached  her  mother 
and  a  young  man  who  stood  beside  her. 

"  Rita,  this  is  Lloyd  Evans,"  said  Lilias.    "  He  wanted 


104  PROLOGUE 

to  know  who  the  lovely  young  woman  with  the  red  hair 
was,  and  I  explained  that  she  wasn't  a  lovely  young  woman 
at  all,  but  my  one  and  only  child." 

Rita  grinned  at  the  man.  "  How  do  you  do,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  not  sure  whether  I  like  New  York  yet  or  not.  I 
think  I  do." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  with  a  mixture  of  disapproval 
and  pride,  "  She  inherits  her  father's  caution,  you  see," 
she  said.  "  They  never  make  a  direct  statement — those  Xew 
Englanders." 

"  But  when  they  say  '  perhaps  ',  they  mean  l  yes  ',  don't 
they?  "  Lloyd  Evans  asked  her,  smiling  at  Rita.  "  I'm 
not  afraid." 

There  was  somehow  more  disapproval  than  pride  in  Lilias' 
face  as  she  left  them  together. 

"So  you  don't  know  yet  whether  you  like  New  York?  " 
Lloyd  Evans  repeated.  "Neither  do  I — and  I'm  one  of 
those  curiosities  that  was  born  here.  On  the  whole  I  do 
like  it,  rather.  Seen  much  of  it?  " 

"  Grand  Central  Station — Broadway — Fifth  Avenue — 
and  only  superficially,"  said  Rita.  "  We've  been  here  almost 
a  month,  and  I  haven't  lived  here  since  I  was  a  baby." 

"  Yeahs  and  yeahs  ago."  He  looked  at  her  speculatively, 
and  seemed  to  decide  in  her  favor.  "  You  must  let  me  show 
you  some  of  the  city.  I  don't  suppose  Lilias  lets  you  have 
dinner  with  young  men,  but  how  about  playing  with  me 
tomorrow  afternoon?  " 

"I'd  love  to,"  Rita  said.  "I—"  She  looked  up  and 
smiled  at  John  Cook. 

"  You  haven't  lost  me,"  he  said  cheerfully. 


PROLOGUE  105 

"  Evidently  not,"  said  Lloyd  Evans,  and  Cook  made  a 
face  at  him  amiably. 

"  May  I  stay?  "  he  asked  Rita. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  and  he  drew  up  a  third  chair. 

"  I  didn't  get  half  a  chance  to  talk  with  you.  You  were 
interesting  enough  as  this  unseen  daughter  of  Lilias  we'd 
heard  so  much  about.  But  now  that  we've  seen  you — I 
was  wondering  if  I  couldn't  show  you  some  of  this  city  of 
ourn?  " 

"  There's  a  lot  of  it  I  haven't  seen,"  said  Rita. 

"  Tomorrow  is  my  busy  day,"  he  began,  "  but — " 

"  Wash  day,"  Lloyd  Evans  put  in,  and  Cook  ignored  him. 

"  But  Tuesday — are  you  all  engaged  up  for  Tuesday?  " 

Rita  was  beginning  to  wish  that  she  had  brought  a  pencil 
and  paper  with  her  to  the  tea,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Tuesday,  then — if  I  may — I  shall  appear  here  promptly 
at  three  o'clock.  May  I?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  have  you,"  Rita  said.     "  You  see,  I—" 

"  I  hope  you've  been  warned  against  this  man,"  Evans 
interrupted.  "  He — " 

"  Miss  O'Day  and  Miss  Webb  introduced  him  to  me,"  said 
Rita.  "  Of  course—" 

"  That's  probably  enough.  Martie  Webb  knows  Cook 
better  than  anyone  else  does.  And — " 

"  Rita!  " 

Rita  frowned.  It  seemed  as  though  her  mother  liked 
interrupting  her.  And  she  was  having  such  a  nice  time. 

"  Come  over  here  a  minute,  Rita." 

"  Yes,  Mother."  She  turned  to  the  two  men  a  little 
ruefully.  "  A  tea  is  a  brutal  thing,"  she  said.  She  picked 


io6  PROLOGUE 

her  way  across  the  room  that  seemed  to  be  more  crowded 
every  minute,  a  bit  more  graceful  than  usual  because  of  the 
two  pairs  of  eyes  that  watched  her.  "  Yes,  Mother?  " 

Lilias  Moreland  was  standing  alone;  she  smiled  at  Rita, 
and  patted  her  cheek.  "  You're  very  charming,  my  dear," 
she  admitted.  "  Do  you  remember  the  Walkers?  You 
were  introduced  to  them  early  this  afternoon." 

"  He  has  red  hair?  " 

"  Yes — and  she's  rather  good  looking — Spanish  effect. 
They're  having  a  theater  party  tonight,  and  they  have  an 
extra  ticket.  Helen  wants  to  know  if  you'd  like  to  go  with 
them — I  think  you'd  have  a  nice  time." 

"  Oh,  for  an  engagement  book!  "  sighed  Rita.  "  Is  New 
York  always  like  this?  Yes,  I'd  like  to  go,  Mother." 

"  You'd  better  run  and  change  your  dress,  then.  They'll 
take  you  to  their  apartment  for  dinner.  It's  six  now." 

"  All  right,  Mother."  Rita  looked  regretfully  about  the 
room.  No  one  stopped  her  on  her  way  to  the  door,  and  she 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  back,  before  she  hurried  down 
the  hall. 

"  Hello,  Rita."  It  was  her  father,  indistinct  in  the  dim- 
ness of  the  hall. 

"  Hello,  Father."  She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
kissed  his  cheek.  "  Oh,  Father — " 

"  Yes?  " 

"  New  York — how  do  people  ever  do  any  work  here?  " 

Webster  Moreland  smiled.  "  Some  don't,"  he  said. 
"  And  then  some  people  are  spurred  on  to  action  by  all 
this  bustle." 

He  watched  her,  smiling,  as  she  ran  up  the  stairs. 


PROLOGUE  107 


II 

Rita  cuddled  down  in  the  back  seat  of  the  automobile 
between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walker.  It  was  almost  an  adven- 
ture, this  being  whirled  away  with  people  she  had  never 
met  before  that  afternoon.  She  studied  them  quietly,  while 
she  talked.  Mrs.  Walker  was  a  tall,  valiant  type  of  woman. 
Her  color  was  high,  and  her  eyes  were  the  sort  that  really 
flash;  it  seemed  to  Rita  that  she  put  more  energy  into 
simple  conversation,  into  her  gestures,  her  entire  manner, 
than  most  people  can  muster  for  a  crisis.  Mr.  Walker,  in 
contrast  to  his  wife  at  least,  was  a  quiet  man;  he  seemed 
not  so  much  restrained  by  her,  as  self-restrained  in  defiance 
of  so  much  energy. 

"  You'll  excuse  us  while  we  go  upstairs  and  dress,  won't 
you?  "  Mrs.  Walker  asked,  as  they  stepped  into  the  hall 
of  her  apartment. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rita. 

"  Oh — if  anyone  comes  before  we  get  down,  just  introduce 
yourself." 

"  Yes,"  Rita  said  again. 

She  looked  about  the  living-room  curiously;  people's 
houses  interested  her,  particularly  the  houses  of  people  she 
did  not  know  well.  It  was  a  pleasant  room,  with  large,  com- 
fortable furniture  and  many  books.  The  pictures  were  full 
of  color  and  well  framed;  the  wall  paper  was  a  soft  gray 
background  for  the  warmth  of  the  room. 

She  slipped  off  her  evening  cape  and  looked  with  satis- 
faction at  her  white  and  silver  dress.  Lilias  had  given  her 


io8  PROLOGUE 

permission  to  do  up  her  hair  that  summer.  It  was  not  be- 
cause she  wanted  a  grown  daughter,  but  she  was  acute 
enough  to  see  that  an  overgrown  girl  with  flying  hair  and 
long  legs  makes  people  wonder  whether  perhaps  she  is  not 
older,  whether  perhaps  she  is  not  kept  a  child  through  a 
beautiful  mother's  jealousy.  Because  Lilias  was  jealous 
of  Rita,  she  did  everything  in  her  power  to  conceal  it;  she 
gave  her  more  freedom  than  another  woman  would  have 
given. 

Rita  sat  down  in  front  of  the  empty  fire-place  and  waited. 
A  bell  rang  and  a  maid  went  down  the  hall,  ushered  a  man 
into  the  room.  Rita  rose — she  wished  that  she  could  forget 
her  early  training;  it  was  so  much  more  grown-up  and  wom- 
anly to  remain  seated — and  smiled. 

"  Mrs.  Walker  said  I  was  to  introduce  myself,"  she 
explained.  "  I'm  Rita  Moreland." 

"  I'm  Dwight  Patterson,"  he  said,  crossing  the  room  and 
sitting  down  opposite  Rita's  chair.  "  I  don't  believe  I've 
met  you  at  the  Walkers'  before?  " 

"  I've  just  come  to  New  York." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment.  "  I  know — 
you  look  like  Web  Moreland." 

"  I'm  his  daughter,"  Rita  answered.  She  rather  resented 
his  calling  her  father  "  Web  ".  In  the  first  place,  he  was  a 
much  younger  man  than  Webster  Moreland,  and  in  the 
second,  Rita,  with  her  usual  abruptness,  had  decided  that 
she  did  not  like  him.  He  was  too  blond,  too  self-possessed. 
She  wished  that  he  would  drop  one  of  the  white  gloves  he 
still  held  in  his  hands,  and  soil  it.  He  looked  too  scrubbed. 
When  the  Walkers  came  downstairs  together  and  Rita  rose, 


PROLOGUE  109 

she  brushed  against  the  gloves,  now  laid  carefully  on  the 
table,  and  felt  a  little  gleeful  when  Patterson  leaned  over 
to  pick  them  up.  Her  mother  would  have  sensed  the  amuse- 
ment in  her  "  Oh,  I'm  sorry." 

The  other  guests  arrived  almost  at  once;  the  slender  girl 
with  the  Valkyrie  hair  who  had  been  at  the  tea  and  who 
proved  to  be  Mrs.  Burton;  Ralph  Burton,  her  husband,  a 
painter  who  looked  like  a  painter,  with  a  proper  brown  beard 
and  a  pleasing  air  of  general  untidiness  although  there  was 
nothing  disarranged  about  him  when  you  came  to  look 
closely;  Daniel  West,  who  looked  like  a  stockbroker  and 
proved  to  be  a  poet — and  who  convinced  Rita  in  five 
minutes'  conversation  that  he  wrote  poetry  like  a  stock- 
broker; Elaine  Keith,  who  looked  very  charming,  and  who 
needed — and  evidently  had — nothing  else  of  interest  about 
her;  and  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman,  Miss  Bullard 
and  Mr.  Steele,  who  might  have  been  interesting,  but  who 
were  interested  in  each  other  to  the  complete  exclusion  of 
everyone  and  everything  else. 

Rita  was  a  little  disappointed  when  she  discovered  that 
of  the  five  men,  Dwight  Patterson  had  evidently  been 
assigned  to  her.  She  sat  between  him  and  Ralph  Burton  at 
dinner,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  as  the  well  brought- 
up  daughter  of  a  perfect  hostess,  devoted  most  of  her  time 
and  conversation  to  the  man  who  was  not  hers  by  right. 
Patterson,  however,  had  the  charming  Elaine  Keith  at  his 
other  hand,  and  did  not  suffer  greatly;  in  fact  it  seemed  to 
Rita  that  her  mis-movement  made  things  better  all  about  the 
table. 

Ralph  Burton  interested  Rita;  first,  because  he  was  a 


no  PROLOGUE 

painter;  afterwards,  because  he  proved  interested  in  her. 
She  felt  vaguely  that  he  was  the  sort  of  man  who  made 
every  woman  feel  that,  but  she  liked,  rather  than  disliked, 
him  for  it. 

The  dinner  was  a  delicious  meal,  and  Rita  who  had  not 
bothered  with  the  sandwiches  and  cake  at  her  mother's  tea 
found  herself  suddenly  hungry.  The  last  course — and  it 
was  ice-cream,  a  melon  shaped  cake  of  frozen  cream  and 
raspberry  ice,  which  grown  people  so  seldom  tolerated — 
was  hurried,  to  Rita's  regret.  When  they  filed  out  into  the 
living-room,  and  Rita  saw  that  it  was  a  quarter-past  eight, 
her  eyes  danced.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  was 
going  to  be  late  for  the  theater. 

Mrs.  Walker  was  a  wise  hostess,  and  when  she  saw  that 
Rita  so  intensely  preferred  Ralph  Burton's  conversation  to 
Patterson's,  she  not  only  approved  her  taste,  but  sent  her 
into  the  taxi-cab  with  him  and  the  inseparable  Miss  Bullard 
and  Mr.  Steele,  while  the  rest  of  the  party  went  on  to  the 
theater  in  her  car. 

The  play  was  a  musical  comedy,  and  was  going  in  full 
blast  when  they  entered  the  theater.  Rita  alone  was  inter- 
ested in  the  play,  and  she  felt  rather  condescending  towards 
the  others,  who  were  so  tragically  grown-up.  Miss  Bullard 
and  Mr.  Steele  watched  the  stage  steadfastly,  and  sat  close 
together,  thinking  their  own  thoughts,  although  no  one,  as 
far  as  Rita  could  see,  felt  the  slightest  wish  to  address  either 
of  them. 

When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  chorus,  Ralph  Burton 
turned  towards  Rita.  "  We're  going  somewhere  and  dance," 
he  said,  and  Rita  was  surprised  to  see  how  much  he  looked 


PROLOGUE  in 

forward  to  dancing.  It  was  her  introduction  to  an  after- 
the-theater  cafe,  and  she  tried  not  to  look  as  impressed  as 
she  really  was.  After  their  first  dance,  Burton  patted  her 
hand  admiringly. 

"  My  God,  girl !  "  he  said.  Rita  was  glad  that  she  danced 
well,  and  when  Mrs.  Walker  finally  rose,  and  the  women 
began  putting  on  their  wraps,  her  heart  sank. 

"  One  more  dance,"  pleaded  Burton.  They  waited  for 
a  moment  for  the  music,  and  finally  he  crossed  the  floor 
impatiently  and  engaged  in  earnest  conversation  with  the 
leader  of  the  orchestra.  Rita's  eyes  grew  round  as  she 
saw  something  long  and  green  slip  from  his  hand  to  the 
hand  that  instantly  afterwards  picked  up  the  baton.  A 
waltz  crashed  out,  and  for  a  moment  Rita  was  so  excited 
that  she  danced  less  well — but  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 

"  We'll  take  Rita  home  with  us,"  the  Valkyrie-haired  Mrs. 
Burton  said,  and  the  three  of  them  stepped  into  a  cab 
together.  "  Had  a  nice  time,  child?  " 

"  Oh,  so  nice!  "  If  Mrs.  Burton  had  felt  any  pangs  of 
jealousy  because  Rita  so  frankly  had  preferred  her  husband 
to  any  of  the  other  guests,  the  admiration  in  Rita's  eyes 
would  have  disarmed  her.  Annette  Burton  was  lovely,  and 
there  was  nothing  in  her  simple  white  evening  dress,  or 
the  still  simpler  peacock  blue  wrap,  to  mar  her  loveliness. 

"  You're  a  nice  child,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  I  want  you 
to  come  up  and  see  me.  Ralph's  studio  is  just  above  our 
apartment,  and  you'll  be  awfully  interested  in  that.  Besides, 
I  can  see  in  his  eyes  that  he's  planning  to  paint  you." 

"  I  would  like  to,"  he  said.  "  Some  day,  Rita — you  don't 
mind  if  I  call  you  that?  " 


ii2  PROLOGUE 

"  I  like  it,"  Rita  said.  "  Sometimes  I  like  to  be  called 
Miss  Moreland  just  to  remind  me  that  I'm  growing  up,  but 
after  I'm  reminded  of  it,  I  want  all  the  people  I  like  to  call 
me  Rita.  You  must,  you  know,  Mrs.  Burton." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  have,"  said  Annette  Burton.  "  My  name's 
Annette." 

"  It's  a  pretty  name."  Rita  leaned  back  against  the  seat 
and  watched  the  lights  streaking  past  the  open  windows  of 
the  cab.  The  sky  was  a  deep  blue,  faded  and  soiled  near 
the  horizon  by  the  glare  of  electric  lights;  the  stars  were 
deeply  set.  "  Oh,  I  do  like  New  York!  "  she  said. 

And  the  New  York  she  liked  at  the  moment  was  the 
New  York  of  beautiful  evening  clothes  and  correct  dinners, 
of  taxi-cabs  and  theaters,  of  flaring  electric  lights  and  a 
deep  blue  sky  tinged  with  yellow. 

Ill 

Monday  morning  went  swiftly.  Somehow  Rita  managed 
to  collect  her  thoughts  sufficiently  to  translate  her  Homer 
and  eventually  to  forget  New  York  altogether,  in  the  four 
hours  with  her  tutor,  David  Ashley.  Her  father  had  found 
David  Ashley,  raked  him  out  of  forgotten  college  days  when 
they  had  been  room-mates  at  Harvard.  Rita  felt  eternally 
grateful  to  him;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  study- 
ing with  a  keen  enjoyment  of  her  studies.  And  Ashley  found 
all  the  qualities  that  he  liked  in  Webster  Moreland  reflected 
and  grown  brighter  in  the  small  daughter  who  resembled 
him  so  much ;  he  appreciated  the  added  warmth  and  love  of 
life  that  Rita  had  inherited  from  her  mother.  In  fact  he 


PROLOGUE  113 

found  the  daily  four  hours  with  Rita  so  interesting  and 
entertaining  that  more  than  once  he  had  to  remember  that 
he  was  a  man  of — well,  over  forty — and  that  Rita  would 
grow  up  in  due  time,  and  marry  some  splendid  boy  of  her 
own  age. 

When  one  o'clock  came,  Rita  looked  at  her  wrist-watch 
and  said  regretfully,  "  Oh,  it  can't  be!  " 

David  Ashley  laughed.  "  It  is,"  he  said,  pulling  out  his 
own  watch. 

"  And  I  have  got  to  have  lunch  and  dress  and — "  She 
remembered  suddenly.  "  I'm  being  shown  New  York  this 
afternoon,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  grew  thoughtful  as  she 
wondered  what  dress  she  should  wear,  and  her  tutor  felt  a 
pang  of  discontent  that  it  was  not  he  who  could  share 
Rita's  afternoons.  He  did  not  realize  that  she  would  have 
enjoyed  an  afternoon  of  play  with  him  quite  as  much  as 
she  enjoyed  a  morning  of  work.  Or  perhaps  he  did  realize 
it,  and  was  afraid  to  let  her  know  that  he  could  play  with 
present  things  as  well  as  with  memories  of  dead  Greeks  and 
Romans. 

"  Good-bye,  Rita."  He  was  holding  out  his  hand,  and 
she  roused  herself  quickly. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Ashley.  It's  been  such  an  interesting 
morning."  She  did  not  realize  that  she  said  that  every 
day  at  one  o'clock,  and  he,  realizing  it,  knew  that  she 
meant  it,  and  was  glad,  although  it  hurt  him  a  little. 

Lloyd  Evans  bustled  into  the  living-room  at  two  o'clock 
promptly,  and  Rita  was  glad  that  her  mother  stopped  for 
a  moment  to  talk  with  him.  She  watched  them  and  felt  a 
kind  of  amusement  in  watching  Lloyd  Evans.  He  was  very 


ii4  PROLOGUE 

much  of  a  small  boy;  there  was  a  swagger  about  him  that 
he  meant  to  be  dashing  and  impressive,  and  that  managed 
merely  to  be  charming  and  ridiculous.  He  was  not  a  hand- 
some man;  rather  short  and  thick-set,  dark  haired  and 
skinned,  with  slanting  gray  eyes.  He  was  in  his  late  twen- 
ties, Rita  decided,  although  he  looked  at  times  both  older 
and  younger. 

Lilias  finally  released  him,  and  Rita  ran  upstairs  to  put  on 
her  coat  and  hat.  She  had  decided  to  wear  her  brown  suit; 
it  was  smart  enough  for  a  fashionable  cafe,  if  that  was  the 
New  York  Mr.  Evans  chose  to  show  her,  but  it  was  quiet 
enough  for  a  trip  to  the  slums,  if  he  was  inclined  toward 
the  picturesque. 

As  it  happened,  he  chose  neither.  They  walked  briskly 
over  to  Fifth  Avenue — the  Moreland  home  was  in  the 
late  Thirties — and  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"  Feel  like  walking?  "  he  asked. 

"  Never  felt  more  like  it,"  Rita  answered.  It  wasi  a 
brisk  afternoon;  the  wind  was  blowing  pleasantly  up  the 
Avenue  from  Washington  Square,  and  people  everywhere 
were  walking.  They  were  silent  for  a  few  blocks,  Rita, 
watching  the  great  green  'busses  lumbering  down  the 
Avenue,  the  scuttling  taxi-cabs,  Lloyd  watching  her.  When 
they  reached  Madison  Square,  the  wind  went  suddenly  mad. 
It  blew  furiously  around  the  Flatiron  Building,  and  the 
structure  seemed  haughtily  to  ignore  it.  The  Garden  build- 
ing rather  enjoyed  the  wind;  Diana  looked  quite  as  though 
she  might  leap  from  her  pedestal,  and  perhaps  stand  for 
a  few  minutes  on  the  shining  gold  knob  that  topped  the 
Metropolitan  Tower. 


PROLOGUE  115 

"  My,  it's  lovely!  "  said  Rita,  clutching  the  orange 
feather  hat  that  she  had  begged  from  her  mother.  Her 
breath  came  quickly  and  her  cheeks  were  bright. 

11  Yes,"  Lloyd  Evans  agreed,  but  he  looked  at  her.  "  This 
part  of  the  Avenue  now  isn't  so  nice.  But  wait." 

They  talked  from  Twenty-second  Street  to  Eleventh; 
after  that  Rita  was  again  preoccupied  with  what  she 
saw. 

"  That  house  is  mine!  "  she  said,  as  they  reached  Ninth 
Street. 

"  That's  been  boneyed  long  ago,"  he  assured  her,  smiling 
at  her  approval  of  the  square  gray  and  brownstone  house. 
"  The  one  on  the  other  side  is  rather  nice — Mark  Twain 
used  to  live  there." 

Rita  showed  proper  attention.  At  Washington  Square 
she  insisted  on  sitting  on  one  of  the  benches  and  staring. 
"But  isn't  it  glorious!"  she  said.  "All  those  nicely 
snobbish,  aristocratic  houses  on  this  side,  and  the  studios 
on  the  other.  I  do  like  it!  " 

They  walked  around  the  statue  of  Garibaldi,  and  Rita 
smiled  and  said,  "Isn't  he  a  darling?  "  as  every  woman  with 
any  sort  of  a  maternal  instinct  says  on  first  beholding  the 
little  Italian,  drawing  his  sword,  and  beaming  benignly  on 
the  flesh  and  blood  Italian  babies  who  play,  rain  and  shine, 
about  his  pedestal. 

"  Do  you  like  dominoes?  "  Lloyd  Evans  asked. 

Rita  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  "  Yes — what's  your 
favorite  color?  "  she  asked  impertinently.  "  I  mean — " 

He  laughed.  "It  really  isn't  so  irrelevant,"  he  said. 
"  Come  along."  They  crossed  the  Square  and  walked  along 


u6  PROLOGUE 

the  North  side,  turned  up  University  Place.  "  This,  my 
child,  is  the  Lafayette." 

"  It's  sweet,"  said  Rita,  and  she  ran  up  the  steps  eagerly. 
The  room  they  entered  was  furnished  with  spindly  legged 
tables  and  chairs.  There  was  no  sign  of  tablecloths  or 
china. 

"  What  would  you  like  to  drink?  "  he  asked.  "  Tea  is 
rotten  here,  but  you  can  have  a  sandwich  or  something  if 
you're  hungry." 

"  I'm  not,"  said  Rita.  "  I — what  are  you  going  to 
have?  " 

"  Being  a  bold  wicked  man,  I'm  about  to  have  a  highball. 
Would  you  like  a  clover-club?  " 

"  Don't  dare.  Of  course  I'd  like  it."  She  sighed.  "A 
lemonade,  I  suppose,  but — " 

"  No!  "  he  interrupted,  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  excite- 
ment. "  You  shall  have  a  very  pleasing  drink  that's  really 
a  drink  and  yet  that  jeunes  filles  may  consume.  In  fact  I'll 
have  one  with  you,  just  for  the  fun.  Deux  pompiers — "  to 
the  waiter. 

"Pompiers?  "  repeated  Rita.    "  What  are  they?  " 

The  waiter  returned  with  bottles,  glasses,  and  to  Rita's 
amusement,  spoons.  "  It  must  be  virtuous  if  you  have  a 
spoon  with  it,"  she  said.  She  watched  while  Lloyd  poured 
thick  purple  liquid  into  the  glasses;  then  something  yellow; 
then  the  siphon.  He  gave  Rita  a  spoon,  and  they  stirred 
vigorously.  Rita  tasted,  and  smiled.  "  Like  it,"  she  said. 
She  tasted  again.  "^  I  do  like  it."  Her  eyes  rested  suddenly 
on  two  elderly  and  excited  Frenchmen  at  the  next  table. 
"  Dominoes!  "  she  said.  "  Oh,  I'm  awfully  glad  you  brought 


PROLOGUE  117 

me  here,  Lloyd.  I — "  She  flushed  as  she  realized  that  she 
had  called  him  by  his  first  name.  Her  confusion  was  appar- 
ent, and  he  smiled. 

"  I've  been  calling  you  Rita,"  he  said.  "  Of  course  it's 
Lloyd.  And  now  I  know  that  you  like  me."  He  picked 
up  her  hand  that  rested  on  the  table,  and  kissed  it.  Rita 
looked  about  the  room,  slightly  embarrassed.  "  New  Eng- 
lander!  "  he  scoffed. 

"  No,  really  I'm  not,"  she  said  quickly.  "  But — I'm 
not  used  to  having  my  hand  kissed.  It — " 

; 'Why,  Rita  Moreland!  " 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  "  Oh.  I  didn't  mean — 
that!  " 

And  Lloyd  Evans,  seeing  how  obviously  she  had  not 
meant  "  that "  felt  a  little  crestfallen  and  disappointed. 
The  dominoes  came  and  they  played  excitedly.  When  Rita 
had  won  three  games  in  succession,  Lloyd  laughed  and 
looked  about  for  the  waiter. 

"  How  nice  it  is  to  have  waiters  who  don't  hover  around 
and  look  as  though  they  were  in  a  hurry  for  you  to  leave," 
said  Rita. 

"  One  of  the  charms  of  the  place,  my  dear." 

The  waiter,  having  given  them  drink  and  dominoes,  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  them  completely,  and  Rita  looked  at  the 
prints  on  the  walls  and  at  the  people,  playing  cards  and 
games,  who  sat  at  the  tables.  Finally  the  waiter  remembered 
them  and  hurried  apologetically  forward,  returned  with 
bottles,  and  Lloyd  refilled  the  glasses. 

When  they  had  finished  their  pompiers,  it  was  nearly  six 
o'clock,  and  they  left  reluctantly. 


u8  PROLOGUE 

"  I've  had  a  very  nice  time,"  Rita  said,  as  they  stood 
together  on  the  steps  of  her  house. 

"  I'm  glad,"  he  said  gravely.  "  We'll  have  another  nice 
time  again  soon." 

Rita  smiled.  The  world  was  such  a  pleasant  place,  filled 
with  old  houses  and  cafes,  all  the  romance  of  years  gone  by. 

"  A  nice  time,"  she  repeated,  half  to  herself.  "  Good- 
bye, Lloyd."  She  ran  up  the  steps  to  the  house. 

IV 

Lessons  were  over  for  the  morning,  and  Rita  stood  beside 
David  Ashley,  looking  thoughtfully  out  the  window  at  the 
rain  that  drenched  the  city.  The  black  street  glistened 
and  shiny  topped  taxi-cabs  skidded  along  its  surface. 

"  I  like  Fifth  Avenue  best  at  night  when  it's  raining," 
she  said.  "  The  reflections  of  the  lights  seem  to  skid  down 
the  street  along  with  the  automobiles.  It's  all  so  streaked 
and  shiny." 

"  It's  lovely,"  Ashley  agreed.  "  You  like  New  York, 
don't  you?  " 

"Y-yes,"  answered  Rita.  "I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Ashley. 
I've  been  here  two  months  now.  And  every  bit  of  New 
York  I've  seen,  I've  liked.  I've  liked  Broadway  and  the 
theaters  and  the  restaurants — but  there's  so  much  of  it, 
and  it's  so  jealous  that  it  wants  all  of  you.  And  I  love 
old  New  York,  and  the  funny  little  streets.  But  old  New 
York  is  jealous,  too — it  doesn't  want  you  to  play  on  Broad- 
way. And  there's  a  New  York  that's  filled  with  wonderful 
paintings  and  museums  and  concerts — and  that  New  York 


PROLOGUE  ug 

wants  your  twenty-four  hours  a  day.  It's  such  a  restless 
city.  I  like  it  all,  but  I  haven't  found  my  New  York  yet, 
the  New  York  that  won't  interrupt  me  and  trouble  me  and 
— oh,  I  can't  explain  it." 

"I  think  I  know,"  he  said.  "It's  the  city's  fault  and 
her  virtue.  I'm  not  afraid  that  you  won't  find  your  city. 
It's  like  the  world,  Rita.  It  has  a  little  of  everything.  I've 
seen  the  tenderloin  city — thieves  and  criminals  and  dope- 
fiends.  And  the  society  town.  The  artistic  New  York. 
The  working  city.  The  studious  city.  There's  something 
for  everyone.  Some  people  find  it  too  strong  for  them  and 
they  stay  and  drift.  And  some  people  find  it  too  strong, 
so  they  run  away  to  smaller  towns.  But  some  people  find 
it  merely  bewildering,  and  they  stay  and  fight  until  they 
have  found  what  they  want.  Everyone  can  find  what  he 
wants  here.  It's  a  merciless  place,  because  it  catalogues 
and  pigeon-holes  people.  It  won't  let  you  deceive  even 
yourself;  it's  a  mirror.  If  you're  a  weakling,  it's  heartless. 
But  if  you're  at  all  strong — it's  magnificent." 

Rita  had  been  looking  out  the  window,  and  she  turned 
and  smiled  as  her  tutor  finished.  "  I  do  like  you,  Mr.  Ash- 
ley," she  said.  "  I — oh,  I'm  so  puzzled.  It's  much  worse 
than  a  terrible  tangle  of  Greek.  It's — I  don't  know  what 
I  do  want.  I  guess  I  never  have.  But  it's  beginning  to 
bother  me  now.  I — " 

"  You'll  find  out,  Rita,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I'm  very 
sure  you'll  get  whatever  you  want — and  I  hope  it  will  be 
the  right  thing." 

"  That  sounds  so — so  ominous,"  said  Rita,  smiling  a 
little.  "All  I  want — is  to  be  happy.  That's  simple,  isn't 


120  PROLOGUE 

it?  "  She  took  Ashley's  hand  in  both  of  hers.  "  It  is 
simple,  isn't  it?  "  she  demanded.  "  Just  to  be  happy?  It 
is!  I  don't  need  very  much.  I — " 

They  were  both  surprised  when  she  stopped  and  took 
out  her  handkerchief.  Her  face  was  already  streaked  with 
tears  when  she  had  unfolded  it.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
crying  silently,  looking  out  the  window.  Then  she  rolled 
the  handkerchief  into  a  ball,  thrust  it  in  her  pocket,  and 
turned  toward  Ashley,  smiling. 

"  It  must  be  the  rain,"  she  apologized.  "  I'm  an  idiot. 
Ill  run  up  and  wash  my  face  and  tell  Mother  that  you're 
going  to  stay  for  luncheon — it's  entirely  too  wet  for  you 
to  go  out." 

She  smiled  brightly  as  she  ran  out  of  the  room,  and 
Ashley  stood  frowning,  watching  her. 


CHAPTER  TWO 


IT  was  snowing  as  Rita  walked  down  the  Avenue.  The 
sun  was  hidden  by  the  swollen  clouds,  and  the  light  filtered 
down  as  though  the  sky  was  a  huge  frosted  shade  over  an 
electric  bulb.  The  storm  had  lasted,  intermittently,  for 
almost  a  week,  and  although  the  street  cleaners  worked 
incessantly,  the  sidewalks  were  heavy  with  snow.  A  'bus 
lumbered  down  the  slippery  street,  stopped  laboriously 
while  two  women  got  out.  Rita  stood  and  watched  the 
driver  as  he  tried  to  start  the  huge  green  animal  again. 
Finally  the  conductor  hopped  off  the  back  step,  and  came 
around  to  the  driver,  grinning,  as  the  snow  sifted  down  on 
his  face. 

"  Dirt  again,"  he  said.  They  shoveled  brown  earth  from 
their  box,  beneath  the  wheels,  streaking  the  snow  only  for 
an  instant  until  fresh  flakes  fell  and  covered  it.  Finally, 
snorting  and  grunting,  the  machine  jerked  forward,  and 
Rita  returned  the  driver's  grin  of  triumph. 

She  stopped  and  picked  up  great  fistfuls  of  snow,  rolled 
them  into  hard  balls.  There  was  little  traffic  beside  the 
'busses  and  occasional  anxious-looking  taxi-cabs  that  seemed 
to  be  driving  on  tip-toes,  as  though  their  wheels  were  revolv- 
ing over  powdered  glass.  She  turned  from  the  Avenue  at 

121 


122  PROLOGUE 

Twenty-second  Street,  and  walked  quickly  along  the  cross- 
town  blocks  until  she  had  crossed  Eighth  Avenue.  Martha 
Webb's  apartment  was  in  one  of  the  old  three-story  build- 
ings that  still  remained,  sprinkled  among  sweat-shops  and 
small  stores. 

The  light  that  sifted  into  the  room  through  the  snow- 
covered  skylight  was  brightened  by  the  tall  candles  that 
spluttered  from  sconces  and  candle-sticks  about  the  yellow 
walls. 

"  Run  along  in  my  room  and  throw  down  your  things, 
Rita,"  Martha  said,  smiling  at  her  from  where  she  sat  on 
the  couch. 

Rita  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  door  as  she  came  back 
into  the  living-room.  The  broad  couch  was  half  covered 
with  a  brightly  embroidered  Spanish  shawl,  and  on  the  low 
table  beside  it,  an  orange  luster  bowl,  half  filled  with 
cigarette  stubs,  gleamed  like  the  sun  that  had  been  hidden 
from  the  city  for  so  long. 

"  Aren't  you  most  frozen?  "  Lucy  O'Day  asked,  coming 
over  to  her,  and  throwing  a  piece  of  charcoal  into  the  fiery 
samovar.  "  I  suppose  this  room  is  frightfully  hot,  but  we 
were  all  so  petrified  when  we  came — real  Russian  tea  with 
rum  and  orange  and  lemon  and  spices,"  she  interrupted  her- 
self, fixing  a  tall  crockery  tumbler  of  the  steaming  liquid 
for  Rita. 

"  I  was  pretty  well  bundled  up,"  Rita  said.  "  Who's  the 
man  with  the  funny  clothes?  " 

"  He's  an  awfully  interesting  person,"  Lucy  said.  "  A 
Frenchman.  He  came  over  here  to  avoid  going  into  the 
army.  His  whole  family  were  up  near  the  German  boundary 


PROLOGUE  123 

— he  doesn't  know  what  has  happened  to  them.  He's  really 
awfully  tragic." 

"  I  should  think  he'd  want  to  go  in  the  army,  then,"  Rita 
said.  "  I  mean — "  She  looked  at  the  slender,  hollow- 
eyed  guest  thoughtfully.  ".He  doesn't  look  as  if  he  could 
fight  much,  but — " 

"  Come  on  over  here,  Rita,"  Martha  called.  "  I  want 
you  to  meet  Mr.  Monnier." 

Rita  went  over  to  the  couch  obediently,  and  gave  her 
cold  hand  to  be  kissed. 

"  Mr.  Monnier  is  telling  us  about  the  war,"  Martha 
continued.  "  Sit  down  and  listen." 

The  Frenchman  looked  at  Rita  with  melancholy  eyes. 

"  It  is  very  terrible,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  Yes,"  Rita  agreed. 

"  I  came  here  so  that  I  need  not  go  into  the  army.  It 
is  terrible." 

"  Y-yes,"  Rita  said.  "  I  should  think,  though— I  mean— 
don't  you  want  to  help?  " 

Monnier  looked  at  her  sadly.  "I  do  not  believe  in 
war,  Mademoiselle." 

"N-no,"  Rita  agreed.  "But  isn't  it— I  mean  isn't  it 
like  not  believing  in  cold  weather?  I  mean — it's  there. 
And  France  needs  her  men,  doesn't  she?  " 

Monnier  smiled  sadly  at  Martha  Webb.  "This  young 
woman  is  a  patriot,  is  she  not?  "  he  asked.  "  Mademoiselle, 
I  have  no  patrie  to  defend.  France  belongs  to  the  capital- 
ists— to  the  rich.  Let  them  defend  her." 

Rita  was  silent.  "  But  if — "  She  turned  helplessly  to 
Martha. 


124  PROLOGUE 

"  Mr.  Monnier  is  a  Socialist,"  said  Martha.  "  He  does 
not  believe  in  war.  It  would  be  against  his  principles  to 
fight." 

"  Oh,"  said  Rita.    "  But—" 

"  But  what,  Mademoiselle?  " 

"  Nothing,  I  guess.  I — "  Rita  leaned  against  one  of 
the  cushions,  and  let  the  conversation  go  on  smoothly. 

The  others,  Martha  and  Lucy,  John  Cook,  who  was  sit- 
ting beside  Peggy  Norris,  Jim  Norris  and  Alice  Bradley, 
the  small  violent  young  suffragist  who  was  up  from  Wash- 
ington visiting  Martha  and  Lucy  for  a  few  days,  all  seemed 
to  know  what  to  say  and  when  to  say  it.  It  consisted 
mostly  in  expressive  "  ahs!  "  and  "of  course!  ",  but  it 
was  more  than  Rita  could  manage.  She  could  not  very 
well  say  "ah!  "  when  she  wanted  to  say  "But — "  and 
pour  forth  a  torrent  of  doubt  and  eagerness. 

The  others  were  not  pretending  comprehension,  Rita 
knew  that.  Perhaps  they  did  not  always  understand,  but 
they  had  the  key,  the  key  that  Rita  had  not  yet  found. 
She  leaned  back  dreamily  and  watched  the  faces  through 
the  cigarette  smoke,  luxuriated  in  the  warmth  and  friend- 
liness of  the  room.  It  was  often  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand the  conversation  at  Martha's  teas ;  she  was,  of  course, 
younger  than  any  of  the  others,  but  she  liked  to  listen, 
and  understand  what  she  could.  Conversation  at  Martha's 
always  reminded  her  of  the  day  she  had  picked  up  a  Greek 
newspaper  in  a  boot-black's  stand.  She  knew  her  ancient 
Greek  well;  the  letters,  many  of  the  words,  were  familiar. 
She  could  even  puzzle  out  the  headlines.  But  the  main 
import  of  the  articles  was  lost  to  her.  It  was  the  same 


PROLOGUE  125 

at  Martha's;  she  understood  the  language  and  most  of 
the  long  words  that  were  flung  about  so  gaily  but  it  was 
not  always  possible  to  co-ordinate  them  into  sense.  When 
she  did,  she  was  quite  as  excited  as  the  dark  boot-black  had 
been,  when  she  read  him  a  long  headline. 

The  arguments  always  left  her  speechless;  seldom  did 
she  get  farther  than  a  confused  "  But — ".  She  liked  to 
listen  to  the  others,  to  listen  and  to  watch. 

Peggy  Norris,  in  an  argument,  sat  very  straight,  and 
looked  as  though  she  was  wound  up  tightly  with  springs 
that  might  snap  at  any  moment,  but  that  never  did.  Her 
eyes  looked  always  directly  at  the  person  she  was  talking 
with;  sometimes  she  leaned  forward  and  took  a  cigarette 
paper,  rolled  the  cigarette  quickly,  without  lowering  her 
gaze.  Martha,  on  the  other  hand,  became  flushed  and 
excited.  Her  hands  fluttered,  picking  nervously  at  her 
handkerchief,  at  the  couch  cover,  at  anything  within  her 
reach.  Her  words  came  haltingly;  sometimes  she  stuttered 
in  her  eagerness  to  explain  the  thoughts  that  were  bolting 
through  her  mind.  Lucy  O'Day  talked  most  easily;  she 
was  more  likely  than  the  other  two  to  dismiss  a  subject 
with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders  when  her  point  failed  to 
carry.  Two  or  three  times  her  temper  had  flared,  and  her 
smooth  voice,  never  lifted,  perhaps  smoother  than  ever, 
could  pour  out  scathing  and  even  disagreeable  things,  while 
she  smiled,  and  her  eyes  wandered  from  one  thing  to 
another  in  the  room.  Jimmy  Norris  always  pounded  and 
roared;  an  argument  between  him  and  his  young  wife 
was  one  of  the  most  delightful  things  in  the  world.  And 
John  Cook  listened  and  smiled,  sometimes  shook  his  head 


126  PROLOGUE 

and  sometimes  nodded,  but  never  argued  at  all.  At  times 
he  smiled  at  Rita  when  they  were  both  silent  amid  the 
confusion  of  voices,  but  Rita  realized  that  he  was  flattering 
her  if  he  thought  she  had  learned  his  wisdom.  She  was 
silent  always  because,  although  she  loved  the  long  argu- 
ments and  talks  that  shook  Martha's  room  every  Thurs- 
day, she  was  somehow  out  of  it.  She  did  not  under- 
stand .  .  . 

"  111  walk  home  with  you,  Rita,"  John  Cook  said,  when 
the  long  candles  were  spluttering  only  a  few  inches  above 
the  sticks,  and  Martha's  clock  had  struck  six. 

"  All  right." 

They  went  out  into  the  snow  together.  Rita  drew  in 
long  draughts  of  the  cold  air;  outside  Martha's  her  head 
always  seemed  suddenly  clearer;  too  often  she  thought  of 
the  words  and  phrases  that  had  failed  her  before  when  she 
needed  them. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Monnier?  " 

He  was  smiling  at  her,  but  Rita  was  grave  with  the 
perlexity  of  giving  an  opinion.  "  I — I  don't  know,"  she 
said.  "  I — am  I  a  Socialist,  John?  " 

Cook  laughed.    "  Am  I,  Rita?  " 

Again  Rita  considered  gravely.  "  Yes,  I  think  you  are," 
she  said  at  last.  "  But  you  don't  take  things  so  seriously. 
And  you're  not — so  violent,  somehow.  But — how  can  I 
know  what  I  am?  " 

He  stopped  smiling,  because  she  was  so  intensely  grave 
over  it  all.  "You  needn't  know  yet,  Rita,"  he  said. 
"  You've  got — how  old  are  you,  child?  " 

"  Sixteen.    Sixteen  and  a  half." 


PROLOGUE  127 

"  Well,  you've  a  year  or  two  more  in  New  York  before 
you  need  make  up  your  mind  about  a  blessed  thing.  Then 
when  you've  made  it  up,  you'll  have  doubts  and  torments. 
Just  listen  to  them  now,  Rita — listen  to  everyone.  The — 
my  Lord,  you  do  make  a  person  serious,  Rita!  How  do 
you  do  it?  " 

Rita  smiled.  "  Do  I?  I  guess  it's  because  I'm  so 
awfully  interested  in  everything.  I  didn't  know  anything 
at  all  when  I  came  to  New  York — I  don't  now.  But  I'm 
beginning  to  know  the  names  and  tags  of  the  things  I  don't 
know." 

"  I  envy  you,  Rita,"  he  said,  and  his  face  was  quite 
unsmiling  as  she  looked  at  him  to  see  if  he  was  making 
fun  of  her.  He  was  silent,  and  Rita,  her  mind  seething 
with  a  confusion  of  thoughts  was  silent,  too.  It  was  not 
until  they  reached  her  house  that  they  spoke  again.  "  Good- 
night, Rita." 

"  Good-night,  John.  Thank  you  for  walking  home  with 
me." 

She  felt  happy  and  glad  that  she  was  alive,  as  she  ran 
up  the  steps. 

II 

Nineteen-fifteen  came  in  with  a  blast  of  gaiety  and  light- 
heartedness.  Rita  felt  lonely  as  she  crept  into  her  bed  at 
half-past  ten.  Sometimes  it  was  unbearably  hard  to  be 
only  sixteen,  and  to  be  properly  brought  up,  when  the  world 
was  full  of  people  who  were  only  nineteen  and  twenty  and 
not  being  brought  up  at  all.  Perhaps  if  the  people  she 
saw  every  day  were  only  sixteen,  too,  it  would  be  easier. 


128  PROLOGUE 

But  when  she  compared  Janet  and  Marian  with  Martha 
and  Lucy,  she  knew  that  she  preferred  the  occasional 
heartaches  when  she  was  reminded  of  her  youth,  to  the 
drab,  uninteresting  life  of  a  young  girl. 

And  John  and  Jimmy  Norris,  even  Lloyd  Evans,  of  whom 
the  crowd's  opinion  was  not  overhigh,  were  preferable  to 
Donald — at  least,  to  the  Donald  whom  she  had  seen  last. 
She  thought  of  Donald  occasionally,  wondered  why  he  had 
changed  from  a  really  nice  little  boy  into  the  awkward, 
embarrassed  youth  she  had  met  at  Janet's.  But  there  was 
no  sentiment  in  Rita's  thoughts;  her  mind  was  too  filled 
with  ideas.  Men  and  women  were  catalogued  alike  in  her 
mind,  according  to  their  beliefs  and  interests. 

At  tea  at  Martha's  the  next  week,  she  curled  up  on  the 
couch  and  listened  to  the  story  of  the  supper  at  Peggy's 
that  lasted  until  almost  midnight,  and  then  of  the  hurried 
ride  in  cabs  to  the  great  hall  where  hundreds  of  people 
in  costume  saw  the  new  year  in,  and  lifted  bubbling  cham- 
pagne glasses.  Martha  and  Lucy  described  as  many  of  the 
costumes  as  they  could  remember;  when  words  failed 
Martha,  Lucy  pulled  out  a  pencil  and  pad,  and  sketched 
them  so  that  they  danced  and  laughed  before  Rita's  eyes. 
They  told  her  of  the  breakfast  at  half-past  seven  the  next 
morning,  and  of  how  Peggy  and  John  Cook  ran  through 
the  early  morning  snow  in  their  tattered  costumes,  and 
pounded  good-natured  policemen  with  snowballs. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  gone,  Rita,"  Lucy  said.  "  Isn't 
it  rotten  to  be  young?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Rita.  "  But,  oh,  it's  so  much  nicer  when 
people  are  so  good  to  me!  "  Lucy  hugged  her,  and  when 


PROLOGUE  129 

she  had  finished,  Martha  came  over  and  put  her  arms 
around  her.  It  was  good  to  have  friends. 

The  New  Year's  party  was  soon  forgotten  in  the  weeks 
that  followed.  Rita's  mornings  were  still  given,  whole- 
heartedly, to  her  tutor,  but  the  afternoons  were  her  own. 
Sometimes  her  mother  took  her  calling  or  shopping,  but 
she  interrupted  her  seldom.  Lilias  did  not  understand  the 
pretty  daughter  who  was  so  uninterested  in  clothes  and 
beaux,  and  so  fascinated  by  a  group  of  older  people  who 
talked  of  politics  and  art  and  abstract  theories  as  though 
they  were  affairs  of  importance. 

But  there  was  more  than  talk  of  politics  and  art  and 
abstract  theories.  Once  when  a  strike  broke,  down  on  the 
East  Side,  the  little  group  of  Rita's  friends  were  in  the  very 
heart  of  it.  Peggy  Norris  picketed;  she  spoke  from  corners 
and  told  the  striking  girls  what  their  legal  rights  were  and 
what  things  they  could  not  do.  At  one  of  Martha's  teas  a 
girl  from  the  striking  shop  came  and  talked  with  them; 
Helen  Marvin,  who  worked  on  one  of  the  Sunday  news- 
papers sat  there  drinking  it  all  in,  and  the  next  week  her 
story  appeared  with  a  picture  of  Rosie  Metz,  and  Lucy's 
sketches  of  the  picketing  girls.  Rita  was  thrilled;  she  had 
never  before  been  near  anything  of  the  sort,  known  of  things 
before  she  read  them  in  the  papers. 

And  that  was  only  one  of  the  things  that  made  New  York 
the  most  wonderful  place  in  the  world  for  her.  She 
found  life  full;  alternating  between  studying  and  living. 
There  was  much  that  she  wanted  to  learn,  and  the  after- 
noons that  she  was  not  with  Martha  or  Lucy  or  Peg  were 
given  up  to  reading  huge  volumes  of  Karl  Marx,  carried 


130  PROLOGUE 

home  from  the  library — volumes  which  she  found  incred- 
ibly hard  to  understand;  of  Nietzsche,  and  other  philoso- 
phers and  economists  whose  names  were  tossed  about  in 
the  smoke  of  the  cigarettes  at  Martha's.  There  were  count- 
less novels  she  found  she  had  not  read,  although  on  that 
score  she  was  better  prepared  for  argument  than  on  any 
other.  She  went  to  Martha's  teas  as  though  they  were 
college  courses,  with  a  pencil  and  notebook,  and  they  were 
all  so  young  and  enthusiastic  and  avid  for  learning  that 
no  one  smiled  as  she  scratched  down  strange  names  and 
words. 

She  read  the  newspapers  with  new  interest;  she  talked 
with  her  father,  and  although  she  had  to  excuse  him  as 
reactionary  and  old-fashioned,  his  ideas  helped  formulate 
her  own.  And  on  Thursday,  she  could  hear  all  the  news 
of  the  week  discussed  by  the  very  people  who  put  it  into 
words  for  the  newspapers.  It  was  living  in  the  heart  of 
things. 

Reading  had  a  new  joy  for  her;  at  the  Thursday  teas 
she  could  start  an  argument  as  to  the  relative  merits  of 
Dickens  and  Wells,  and  then  sink  back  to  listen  to  the 
violence  she  had  set  in  motion.  They  were  ready  to  argue 
about  anything,  ready  always  with  their  opinions,  and  a 
woe-to-him-who-disagrees  expression  in  their  eyes.  Some- 
times Rita  mischievously  started  arguments  which  could 
end  nowhere,  arguments  that  were  essentially  ridiculous. 
Then  when  John  Cook's  eyes  sought  her  own,  she  grinned 
back  at  him  delightedly. 

Sometimes  Lucy  O'Day  telephoned  her,  and  they  went 
together  to  a  beauty-parlor  or  a  dog-show  or  some  place 


PROLOGUE  131 

where  strange  types  of  humans  and  animals  were  congre- 
gated, and  Rita  sat  adoringly  while  Lucy  sketched  out  her 
weekly  page  of  drawings.  Once  or  twice  Rita  suggested 
material,  and  Lucy  insisted  on  giving  her  a  share  of  the 
check. 

Exactly  what  they  thought  of  her,  Rita  did  not  know;  it 
was  doubtful  if  they  knew.  Her  mind,  undeveloped  though 
it  was,  was  keen  at  times;  once  or  twice  they  had  conceded 
her  point.  And  her  open  admiration  was  too  warm  for 
them  to  find  anything  but  pleasure  in  basking  in  it. 

Rita  realized  always  that  she  did  not  quite  belong; 
that  it  was  more  by  the  whim  of  royalty  than  anything  else 
that  she  was  allowed  to  sit  and  listen,  even  to  interrupt. 
She  was  a  child  at  a  grown-up  party,  and  she  enjoyed  it  as 
keenly  as  ever  a  child  who  watched  the  hands  of  the  clock 
creep  beyond  bedtime.  She  was  learning,  and  she  wanted 
to  learn.  All  her  doubts  and  troubles  of  the  year  before 
were  lost  in  this  new  world.  She  was  hearing  of  painters 
she  had  never  before  heard  of;  she  had  thought  herself — 
and  had  been — better  informed  than  any  of  the  girls 
at  boarding-school  because  she  could  tell  a  Botticelli  from 
a  Rembrandt.  Now  she  was  learning  of  Cezanne  and 
Picasso;  where  she  had  been  original  to  hang  Battersea 
Bridge  over  her  desk  at  boarding-school,  a  flaming  cubist 
portrait  in  her  New  York  room  was  nothing  out  of  the 
ordinary.  Except,  of  course,  to  her  parents,  who  regarded 
her  with  awe  and  amusement. 

She  was  reading  new  poetry,  and  listening  to  new  music; 
she  talked  of  the  future  of  the  drama — she  had  had  to 
read  Moliere,  Ibsen,  and  a  great  many  other  playwrights 


132  PROLOGUE 

who  had  been  but  names  to  her,  before  she  dared  talk  with 
any  certainty  about  Helen  Marvin's  newest  dramatic  off- 
spring. 

Best  of  all,  she  was  learning  so  many  things  that  she 
had  no  time  to  formulate  opinions;  she  was  merely  cram- 
ming her  mind  with  names  and  facts  and  impressions, 
and  waiting  unconsciously  until  she  was  away  from  it 
all  to  sort  her  thoughts,  and  discard  those  she  did  not 
need. 

One  morning  David  Ashley  was  late  in  arriving,  and 
when  he  finally  came  into  the  schoolroom  he  found  her 
curled  up  in  her  chair,  scowling  over  "  The  Theory  of  the 
Leisure  Class  ". 

"  Where'd  you  get  that?  "  he  asked,  smiling,  as  she 
pushed  it  aside. 

"  The  library.  There  are  so  many  things  I  don't  know, 
Mr.  Ashley." 

"  Interested  in  it?  "  He  stood  looking  down  at  her,  his 
blue-gray  eyes  twinkling. 

"  Yes.  At  least  I'm  interested  in  what  all  these  people 
have  to  say,  but  they're  so  much  more  interesting  when 
someone  else  quotes  them  than  when  you  try  to  read  them 
yourself." 

"  I'll  grant  you  that.    And  who  quotes  them?  " 

"  Oh— Martha  Webb  and  Peg  Norris— " 

"  Peggy  Norris?  I  didn't  know  you  knew  her.  I  gave 
that  young  woman  a  course  myself  once — mighty  clever 
girl." 

"  Awfully,"  Rita  agreed.  "  And — oh,  they  make  me  feel 
so  ignorant,  Mr.  Ashley.  When  they're  talking  about 


PROLOGUE  133 

syndicalism  here,  it  doesn't  add  much  to  the  conversation 
if  I  talk  about  the  laws  of  Pesistratus." 

"  No,"  he  agreed.     "  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  help  you?  " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ashley!"  Rita  looked  up  happily.  "You 
mean — " 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can  get  much  more  into  our  morn- 
ings," he  said.  "  And  of  course  I'm  busy  all  afternoon  now. 
But  if  you  could  spare  me  two  or  three  evenings  a  week?  " 
He  smiled  inwardly,  when  he  thought  of  how  jealously  he 
had  been  guarding  those  evenings  of  his. 

"Oh,  yes!  Three!  "  Rita  said  enthusiastically.  "And 
you'll  tell  me  whether  government  ownership  would  work 
or  not,  and  why  free  trade  isn't  better  than  tariffs,  and 
whether — " 

"Heavens!  I  wouldn't  go  that  far,  Rita.  Nobody 
knows  if  government  ownership  would  work  here — " 

"  Peg  says  she  knows  it  would,"  said  Rita.  "  Of  course 
the  government  would  have  to  be  better,  and — " 

"  I'm  glad  you're  interested  in  these  things,  Rita. 
You'll  probably  be  a  voter  when  you're  not  much  over 
twenty-one,  you  know.  Have  you  any  choice  of  eve- 
nings? " 

"  None  at  all.  I'd  like  Thursday,  though,  because  I  go 
to  Martha's  for  tea  every  Thursday  and  I'm  always  bub- 
bling over  with  things  I  want  to  ask  someone.  Father  is — 
Father  isn't  interested." 

"He  never  was,"  said  Ashley.  "We'll  talk  about  all 
the  things  you're  '  bubbling  over  '  with,  and  see  if  we  can't 
get  some  of  them  straight.  Now  we'd  better  think  about 
Mr.  Homer." 


134  PROLOGUE 

Rita  turned  to  her  place  in  the  book,  and  was  ready 
for  him  by  the  time  he  had  sat  down  at  his  desk. 

Ill 

March  3rd,  1915. 
DEAR  RITA: 

What  are  you  doing  these  days?  It's  months  since  you've 
written  me.  Lilias,  in  her  last  letter  to  Estelle,  says  that 
you're  "playing  around  with  a  radical  crowd  and  taking 
life  very  seriously  indeed."  Are  you  really? 

And  do  you  forsake  your  old  friends  for  new  so  easily 
as  all  that?  I'd  like  to  hear  from  you.  There  was  a  time 
once  when  we  used  to  give  each  other  good  advice — 
remember?  Or  has  New  York  solved  all  your  troubles? 
Of  course  if  you're  really  grown-up,  I'll  be  all  the  more 
fascinated. 

Write  me  and  apologize  for  not  having  said  a  word  since 
your  stingy  little  Christmas  card.  Rita! 

Love  to  you  all, 

ROY. 

March  6th,  1915. 
DEAR  ROY: 

I  am  ashamed.  But  it  seems  as  though  no  one  else  in 
the  world  was  as  busy  as  I  am.  Of  course  I  don't  forsake 
my  old  friends.  But  people  seem  so  far  away  from  me 
these  days — I'm  full  of  ideas. 

I've  never  worked  so  hard — I  think  it's  New  York.  At 
first  I  thought  New  York  was  a  play-city — that  was  be- 
cause of  Broadway  and  the  electric  lights  and  the  cafes. 


PROLOGUE  135 

But  now  I'm  learning  about  the  people  who  write  the  plays 
and  the  advertisements  for  them  and  the  reviews  of  them 
— everything  almost  except  the  people  who  make  the  bulbs 
themselves.  And  I'm  learning  that  they  are  probably  work- 
ing under  rotten  labor  conditions,  and  that  probably  little 
children  who  should  be  in  school  are  growing  pale  and  thin 
wrapping  up  the  bulbs  or  something. 

And  the  cafes — I'm  meeting  the  people  who  design  the 
costumes  for  the  cabarets  and  paint  the  wall  decorations. 
And  learning  about  waiters,  and  how  the  managers  don't 
pay  them  enough  salary  and  so  the  public  has  to  make  up 
the  rest  of  it  in  tips. 

Oh,  I'm  learning  a  lot,  Roy. 

I'm  happy,  I  guess.  I  haven't  time  to  think  about  such  an 
unimportant  person  as  me.  It  was  when  I  was  very  young 
and  ignorant  that  I  used  to  bother.  The  world  is  so  big. 
Of  course  I  still  hate  being  young — sixteen  is  really  no  age 
at  all  to  be,  Roy.  But  I  have  so  much  to  think  of  and  learn 
that  sometimes  I  hate  to  think  how  old  I'm  growing  and  how 
ignorant  I  am. 

This  isn't  a  long  letter,  because  I  promised  Peggy  Norris 
to  go  over  to  her  house  this  afternoon.  We're  starting  a 
theater,  a  place  where  good  dramatic  art  can  be  put  before 
the  public.  Good  stuff  can't  get  on  Broadway,  you  know; 
you  have  to  have  a  pull  to  get  there.  So  we're  all  working 
awfully  hard. 

I  will  write  again — honestly.  It  was  awfully  nice  to  hear 
from  you. 

As  ever, 

RITA. 


136  PROLOGUE 

March  nth,  1915. 
DEAR  RITA: 

Oh,  dear  me!  I  understand  why  you  haven't  written,  my 
child.  What  chance  has  a  mere  human  against  an  Idea? 
Or  Art — you  do  spell  it  with  a  capital,  don't  you? 

Rita,  my  dear,  I  almost  wept  when  you  told  me  how  the 
electric  lights  on  Broadway  were  being  hoisted  up  by  pale 
little  children  who  should  be  in  school.  Why  don't  you  do 
something  about  it?  And  the  poor,  poor  waiters!  Isn't  it 
awful  the  way  the  wealthy  arrogant  public — like  me — insists 
on  plying  them  with  tips  that  they're  so  reluctant  to  take? 
Rita,  I  do  think  you  should  find  time  to  do  something  about 
that!  You  ought  to,  you  know. 

I'm  sorry  you  hadn't  time  to  write  about  such  an  unim- 
portant person  as  yourself — I  used  to  love  hearing  about 
Rita  Moreland,  and  I  really  used  to  think  that  she  was  quite 
important. 

Forgive  an  old  man  his  sport,  Rita  dear,  and  write  me 
again.  Your  letter  was  charming. 

Love  to  you, 

ROY. 

Rita  did  not  answer  Roy's  second  letter. 

IV 

Spring  had  broken  as  suddenly  on  New  York  as  winter 
had  followed  fall.  The  snow  had  hardly  melted  before  the 
gray  trees  in  the  parks  began  sending  up  green  shoots,  the 
sky  was  softer  and  more  pale  in  its  blue,  the  Fifth  Avenue 
^busses  were  crowded  at  night. 


PROLOGUE  137 

The  windows  of  the  house  were  thrown  open  to  the  warm 
evening,  and  Lilias  was  stretched  on  the  day-bed  reading 
a  magazine.  Across  the  room,  Webster  Moreland  was  play- 
ing solitaire,  pausing  thoughtfully  before  each  card  was 
turned  over;  Rita,  in  a  straight-backed  chair  drawn  close 
to  the  table,  was  reading  and  making  notes  in  a  huge  blank- 
book.  Lilias  looked  at  them  and  yawned;  suddenly  she 
hurled  her  magazine  across  the  floor.  Her  skin  was  white 
above  the  red  folds  of  her  negligee;  Rita,  as  she  looked  up 
suddenly,  thought  her  very  beautiful. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we'll  be  going  to  Larchborough  soon," 
she  said. 

"  Pretty  soon,"  said  Webster  Moreland.  "  I've  been 
thinking  about  it  lately." 

Rita  looked  at  them,  startled. 

"  You  know,  I  rather  want  to  go  this  year,"  Lilias  con- 
tinued. "  I  must  be  growing  old.  The  thought  of  all 
that  shade  and  fresh  air  to  bask  in — and  parties  at  night, 
with  the  lake  rippling  against  the  shore — "  She 
crossed  her  hands  behind  her  head  and  leaned  back 
luxuriously. 

Rita  let  her  book  slip  to  her  lap,  and  stared  out  the  open 
window.  "  Larchborough !"  she  said.  Larchborough!  It 
meant — swimming  again,  tennis,  all  the  fun  of  out-of-doors. 
Larchborough.  It  meant  leaving  Martha  and  Lucy  and  Peg 
and  John.  It  meant — leaving  New  York!  "  But — "  She 
hesitated,  considering. 

"  But  what,  kid?  "  her  mother  asked. 

"  But  Fve  got  so  much  to  do,"  Rita  answered,  "  I'd 
forgotten  about  Larchborough.  I  mean — why,  I  don't  see 


138  PROLOGUE 

how  I  can  go,  Mother.  And  now  Peg  and  Martha  and  the 
rest  of  us  are  talking  of  starting  a  theater  and — " 

"  I  guess  they  can  get  along  without  you,  Rita,"  Lilias 
said.  "  Of  course  those  girls  have  been  awfully  nice  to  take 
you  in  the  way  they  have,  but  after  all,  you're  only  a 
kid." 

Rita  looked  at  her  mother  speculatively;  she  did  not 
understand. 

"  They'll  be  going  away,  too,  won't  they?  "  her  father 
asked.  His  gaze  rested  on  her  for  a  moment.  "  You  need 
the  country,  Rita.  You  need  a  lot  of  sun  and  fresh  air — 
you're  pale.  I  think  David's  been  making  you  study  too 
hard." 

"  Rot,"  said  Rita.  "  But—"  She  was  unable  to  bring 
her  thoughts  back  to  her  book. 

The  next  Thursday  she  hurried  breathlessly  over  to 
Martha's.  It  was  decided ;  they  were  going  to  Larchborough 
in  three  weeks.  And  she  had  to  go;  her  father  and  mother 
had  both  said  firmly  that  she  could  not  remain  in  New  York. 
She  did  not  know  what  Martha  and  Lucy  would  think  of  her 
for  deserting  them  when  the  theater  needed  all  the  hands 
there  were  to  get  it  ready  for  a  fall  opening. 

"  Oh,  Rita!  "  Martha  called,  as  she  burst  into  the  room. 
"  Come  over  here!  We've  taken  a  house  for  the  theater 
and  Lucy  has  just  finished  the  plans  for  the  stage.  She  and 
Jim  are  going  to  do  it  together — Jim's  a  shark  on  amateur 
carpentry.  Won't  this  be  dear?  " 

Rita  flung  off  her  coat  and  ran  over  to  the  couch  to  inspect 
the  drawings. 

"  We're  going  to  have  a  peacock  blue  curtain,"  Lucy  said. 


PROLOGUE  139 

"  Martie  and  I  can  make  it— we're  going  to  mix  the  dye  our- 
selves. And — " 

"  We're  going  to  Larchborough  in  three  weeks!  "  Rita 
interrupted  and  looked  at  them  tragically. 

"  Lucky  kid!  "  said  Lucy. 

"  L-lucky!  "  repeated  Rita. 

"  I  should  say  you  are,"  Martha  agreed.  "  Larchborough! 
Doesn't  it  sound  shady  and  cool,  Lucy?  " 

"  But—"  Rita  looked  at  them  blankly.  "  But  I  don't 
want  to  leave  New  York!  "  she  said. 

Martha  laughed.  "  My  dear,  New  York's  a  fascinating 
place  and  all  that,"  she  said.  "  But  New  York  in  summer! 
No!  And  once  again — no!  You  don't  suppose  we'd  be 
here  if  we  didn't  have  to  be?  " 

Rita  looked  at  them  incredulously.  "  But — the  theater ! 
Just  when  we're  starting  in  and  everything!  " 

Lucy  laughed,  too.  "  My  dear  child,  the  theater's  going 
to  be  loads  of  fun,  and  help  us  to  bear  up  a  little  under  the 
heat.  But  you  don't  suppose  we'd  stay  in  a  hot  city  work- 
ing, if  we  could  go  to  the  country,  do  you?  " 

Rita  was  silent.  Larchborough  .  .  .  She  looked  about 
the  studio.  It  probably  would  be  hot  in  summer.  But  it 
was  New  York.  It  was  everything  that  was  interesting  and 
thrilling. 

"  Peg  and  Jim  are  going  away  for  a  month,"  said  Martha. 
"  And  of  course  Lucy  and  I  will  get  some  sort  of  vacations. 
Take  your  whole  summers  while  you  can,  Rita.  After  you're 
working,  you  won't  be  able  to  have  them." 

"  I  suppose  not."  Rita  felt  her  lips  trembling;  it  was 
hard  to  be  offered  congratulations,  when  you  wanted — and 


140  PROLOGUE 

had  expected — sympathy.  "  I've  only  come  in  for  a  moment. 
I — I've  got  to  go  to  the  library." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  Martha  said.  "  You'll  be  in  next 
Thursday,  though,  if  we  don't  see  you  before?  " 

"  Yes."  Rita  put  on  her  coat  and  hat  slowly.  "  Good- 
bye," she  said  at  the  door. 

"  Good-bye,  dear." 

She  walked  along  Twenty-second  Street  sadly,  and  up 
the  Avenue.  There  was  no  use  in  going  home;  she  did  not 
want  to  see  people.  The  sunshine  hung  softly  over  the  tops 
of  the  buildings;  there  was  a  smell  of  spring  in  the  air.  But 
Rita  did  not  care.  It  was  the  first  Thursday  that  she  had 
not  stayed  at  Martha's  for  tea,  and  it  looked  quite  as  though 
tea  would  be  served  all  the  same.  True,  three  or  four  times 
it  had  been  served  without  Martha,  and  once  Peg  and  Rita 
going  up  the  stairs  together  had  found  a  note  on  the  door 
explaining  that  neither  Martha  nor  Lucy  could  be  there. 
The  samovar  was  ready  and  the  tea-things  in  the  kitchen- 
ette. A  great  many  people  had  flocked  there  that  day,  and 
Rita  had  pretended  to  herself  that  it  was  she  who  lived  in 
the  little  apartment,  that  she  was  the  hostess  whom  all 
these  people  had  come  to  see. 

She  was  lonely.  At  Fifty-ninth  Street,  as  she  started  to 
turn  into  the  park,  she  heard  her  name  called.  It  was  Lloyd 
Evans,  swinging  along,  and  looking  quite  proud  of  his  new 
suit.  Rita  had  not  seen  him  for  months. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you?  "  he  asked,  as  she  reached 
her.  "  You  look  frightfully  downcast." 

"  Nothing,"  said  Rita. 

"  Going  anywhere?  " 


PROLOGUE  141 

"No." 

"  Neither  am  I.  Shall  we  go  in  the  park  and  feed  the 
swans  or  something?  " 

"  I  don't  think  they're  out  yet,"  Rita  said  dully.  "  If 
you  like,  we  can  see." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  so  crazy  about  feeding  the  swans  as  all 
that,"  he  said.  "  What's  the  matter?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Rita  again.  If  only  he  wouldn't  ask 
her.  She  glanced  at  him,  and  the  evident  sympathy  in  his 
face  made  her  want  to  cry.  "  Oh,  it's  just — just  that  we're 
going  to  Larchborough  and  I  don't  want  to  go  and  I  don't 
know  whether  I  like  New  York  or  not  and — and  I  wish 
I  was  dead!  " 

"Well!  "  Lloyd  said.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment. 
"  We  might  go  in  the  Plaza  and  get  some  tea." 

Rita  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"  In  fact  what  you  need  is  food  and  drink — real  drink. 
Come  along." 

They  turned  back,  and  Rita  followed  him  silently.  After 
she  had  eaten  two  sandwiches  and  sipped  her  tall  Tom 
Collins,  Rita  felt  suddenly  more  at  peace  with  the  world. 

"  Of  course  you're  much  too  young  to  drink,"  he  scolded 
her,  "  and  I  suppose  Lilias  would  kill  me,  but  if  ever  any- 
one was  in  need  of  the  demon  rum,  you  were.  No,  keep 
still,  Rita,  and  eat.  After  you've  eaten  that  plate  of  sand- 
wiches, I'm  going  to  get  you  an  ice  and  some  little  cakes. 
Oh,  of  course  I  can't  afford  it — don't  try  to  interrupt.  I 
got  fired  last  week,  but  I  don't  care.  I — " 

"  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  cross,  Lloyd,"  Rita  interrupted. 

«  T » 


142  PROLOGUE 

He  laughed.  "  Good  Lord,  aren't  we  all  sometimes?  I 
never  saw  you  with  a  grouch  before.  You  really  might  tell 
me  what's  the  matter  now." 

"  Nothing  really,"  Rita  said.  "  But  oh,  I  hate  the  thought 
of  Larchborough  and  silly  young  boys  and  girls.  And  now 
I  hate  the  thought  of  New  York  and — and  people  here.  I 
wish  I  belonged  somewhere.  I  don't  belong  here  or  in  Larch- 
borough — oh,  do  you  suppose  I'll  be  young  forever, 
Lloyd?  " 

Lloyd  did  not  smile;  Rita  liked  him  because  he  took  her 
seriously  even  when  she  sounded  most  childish.  "  You're 
nearly  seventeen,"  he  said.  "  And  then  soon  you'll  be 
eighteen.  That's  not  a  half  bad  age." 

"  N-no,"  Rita  admitted.    "  But  it  seems  so  long  to  wait." 

"  You're  grown  up  enough  now  to  be  perfectly  charming," 
he  said.  "  You're  such  a  serious-minded  little  party,  though. 
Why  don't  you  turn  those  nice  sympathetic  eyes  of  yours 
from  the  poor  working  classes  to  some  of  us  poor  males?  " 

Rita  smiled.  "  Perhaps  I  was  interested  in  a  male  who 
was  interested  in  the  poor  working  classes,"  she  said.  It 
was,  of  course,  a  lie,  but  she  looked  very  charming  when  she 
said  it,  and  he  laughed. 

"  I  don't  think  much  of  him  if  he  lets  you  wander  alone 
and  disconsolate  on  a  lovely  spring  day  at  tea-time." 

"  But  if  he  hadn't,"  Rita  said,  hoping  that  Lloyd  would 
not  ask  who  "  he  "  was,  "  I  shouldn't  have  met  you  and  be 
having  such  a  pleasant  time  right  now." 

He  laughed.  "  Now  you're  acting  like  a  human  being 
again,"  he  said,  and  Rita  looked  at  him  quizzically.  Was 
Lloyd's  idea  of  a  human  being  a  person  who  wasted  good 


PROLOGUE  143 

conversation  in  what  her  mother  would  probably  consider 
flirting? 

"I  feel  like  a  human  being,"  she  said;  "An  awfully 
human  human  being." 

"  It's  the  spring,"  said  Lloyd.  "  Let's  get  a  hansom- 
cab  and  trot  about  in  the  park  and  enjoy  it." 

"  All  right,"  Rita  said,  and  when  finally  they  stopped  at 
her  house  she  felt  light-hearted  again. 

She  sang  as  she  changed  her  dress  for  dinner,  and  chat- 
tered with  her  father  about  Larchborough  all  evening,  while 
Karl  Marx  lay  neglected  on  the  reading  table. 

After  all,  there  were  some  advantages  in  being  young. 


CHAPTER   THREE 


THE  summer  at  Larchborough  passed  all  too  quickly.  In 
August  when  Rita  and  Bobby  were  rowing  home  from  the 
moving-picture  show,  a  sharp  wind  blew  from  beyond  the 
hills  across  the  lake  to  remind  them  that  autumn  was  com- 
ing again.  Rita  felt  a  tinge  of  regret  at  the  thought  of 
leaving  Larchborough;  she  wondered,  half  sadly,  whether 
she  would  always  hate  parting  so.  It  had  been  wonderful 
to  forget  all  the  complexities  of  life,  to  forget  to  think,  in 
the  glory  of  living  in  the  summer-time.  For  more  than  three 
months  she  had  hardly  thought  of  New  York.  She  had 
talked  of  it,  of  course;  even  boasted  a  little  to  Bobby  and 
the  other  boys  and  girls  of  the  wonderful  city  she  had  been 
so  much  a  part  of.  It  was  romantic  to  think  of  it  all  in 
retrospect,  to  talk  of  the  teas  at  Martha's  and  the  after- 
noons at  Peg's  and  to  forget  the  long  hours  in  which  she 
had  read  dull  books  and  pamphlets.  New  York  seemed 
like  going  back  to  school.  She  shuddered  slightly. 

"  Cold?  "    Bobby  asked  tenderly. 

Rita  smiled.  "  No,"  she  said.  "  The  wind  smells  sc* 
of  fall.  I  was  just  thinking  that  soon  we'll  be  leaving 
Larchborough." 

"  You'll  be  going  back  to  New  York." 

"  Yes.    But  I'm  going  to  miss  Larchborough." 

144 


PROLOGUE  145 

Bobby  feathered  his  oars,  and  the  boat  drifted  silently 
across  the  moon-lit  water.  "  Will  you  miss  me,  Rita?  " 

Rita  looked  at  him  and  smiled  faintly.  Bobby  was  a 
nice  boy,  grown  tall  and  brown  again  with  another  summer. 

"  Yes,  I'll  miss  you,"  she  said.  It  was  not  Bobby  that 
she  would  miss,  of  course;  it  was  the  things  that  Bobby 
represented.  New  York  meant  serious  things — wonderful, 
but  .  .  .  She  sighed,  and  Bobby's  sigh  answered  her. 

"  You  know — you're  awfully  pretty,  Rita." 

"  Am  I?  I'm  glad."  In  New  York  it  did  not  matter  that 
she  was  pretty;  in  New  York  they  cared  only  about  minds. 
Larchborough — she  did  hate  to  leave  Larchborough. 

"  We're  growing  up  now,  Rita,  aren't  we?  " 

Growing  up.  Perhaps  that  would  solve  things.  She  was 
older;  she  was  past  seventeen  now.  Peg  Norris  had  been 
only  twenty  the  year  before. 

"  Aren't  we,  Rita?  " 

"Yes,  Bobby." 

"  I  suppose  some  day  we'll  be  getting  married  and  all 
that." 

"  I  suppose  we  will."  Marriage.  Rita  had  never 
thought  much  about  marriage  in  New  York.  Peg  and  Jim 
were  married,  but  they  did  not  seem  any  different  from  the 
others.  Marriage.  .  .  Rita  looked  at  Bobby  thought- 
fully, and  wondered  why  he  flushed.  She  had  not  been 
thinking  of  Bobby. 

The  boat  grazed  gently  against  the  dock;  he  drew  in  his 
oars. 

"  Want  to — want  to  walk  for  a  while,  Rita?  " 

Rita  hesitated.    Walking  would  be  nice.     But  there  was 


146  PROLOGUE 

still  that  touch  of  autumn  in  the  wind,  and  her  mind  was 
filled  with  thoughts  of  New  York.  "  I — I  want  to  think, 
Bobby,"  she  said. 

"  All  right.    I— I've  a  lot  to  think  about,  too." 

"  Have  you,  Bobby?  "  He  was  very  earnest  as  he  stood 
beside  her;  Bobby  was  really  growing  to  be  a  man.  Rita 
felt  a  sudden  tenderness  toward  him.  She  felt  positively 
maternal;  it  was  such  a  short  time  since  Bobby  had  been 
only  a  funny  little  boy  with  freckles  and  cut  fingers.  "  Good- 
night, dear,"  she  said  tenderly,  and  started  up  the  path. 

Bobby  stood,  almost  rooted  to  the  path,  watching  her. 
"Rita!"  he  gasped  finally.  "Oh,  Rita!"  He  hurried 
after  her  and  took  her  hand.  He  was  panting,  as  though  he 
had  run  a  long  way.  "  Say — Rita — did  you  really  mean 
that?  " 

"  Mean  what?  " 

"  That— what  you  said?  " 

"  What,  Bobby?  "  She  stopped  and  regarded  him  gravely. 

"  You  said — '  dear  '."    He  choked  over  the  word. 

As  Rita  looked  at  him,  his  face  bent  towards  hers,  his 
eyes  shining,  she  did  not  know  whether  she  wanted  to  cry 
or  to  laugh.  Bobby  was  such  a  nice,  such  a  human  boy. 
Her  eyes  were  suddenly  misty.  "  Oh,  Bobby,  you  are  a 
dear !  "  she  said,  and  pulled  his  head  down,  kissed  his  cheek 
softly,  before  she  ran  up  the  path  and  left  him  staring 
happily  after  her. 

II 

Rita  had  been  in  New  York  for  a  week.  The  next  Mon- 
day David  Ashley  would  come,  and  the  routine  of  life  would 


PROLOGUE  147 

begin  again.  She  sat  at  the  window,  wondering  whether  she 
was  sorry  or  glad.  She  had  not  seen  any  of  her  friends; 
she  had  been  too  busy  unpacking  and  shopping.  There  were 
weeks  of  dress-making  ahead  of  her,  all  sorts  of  things  to 
be  done  before  she  would  have  much  time  to  herself.  The 
telephone  rang  suddenly,  and  she  hurried  out  into  the  hall. 

"  This  is  Miss  Moreland,"  she  said  quietly.  And  then, 
"  Fran!  Fran  Woodward!  Where  in  the  world — how  did 
you  know  I  was  in  town?  "  The  color  rose  in  her  cheeks 
and  her  eyes  sparkled.  "  Oh,  I'd  love  to!  Now?  What 
time  is  it?  All  right — just  as  soon  as  I  can  get  dressed." 
She  clicked  the  receiver  back  on  the  hook,  and  hurried  up 
the  stairs. 

"  Who  was  that,  Rita?  "  Lilias  called  from  her  room. 

"  Fran  Woodward — don't  you  remember  I  went  to  school 
with  her?  She's  just  heard  that  I  was  back  in  town  and 
wants  me  to  come  over  for  luncheon.  You  don't  mind, 
Mother?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  You're  a  duck."  Rita  rushed  into  her  room,  and  threw 
open  her  closet  door.  "  Oh,  Mother,  be  a  dear?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  wear,  Rita?  " 

"  Your  cape."  She  hurried  back  to  her  mother's  room. 
Lilias- was  lying  on  her  bed,  with  a  copy  of  Vogue  in  her 
hand. 

"  Don't  you  think  my  red  velvet  will  be  pretty  made  this 
way,  Rita?  " 

Rita  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  glanced  at  the  model 
her  mother  was  studying.  "  Heavenly.  You're  a  dear  to 
let  me  take  your  cape.  I  wanted  to  wear  that  green  dress 


148  PROLOGUE 

and  I  haven't  a  decent  coat."  She  pulled  the  soft  brown 
cape  from  her  mother's  closet  and  put  in  on. 

Lilias  glanced  at  her  idly.  "  It's  very  becoming  to  you — 
I  guess  I'll  give  it  to  you,  Rita." 

"  Oh,  Mother!  " 

"  Why  don't  you  try  my  little  brown  hat?  "  Lilias  sat  up 
on  the  bed  and  thrust  her  feet  into  scarlet  satin  mules. 
"  Sit  down  at  my  table,  Rita."  She  pulled  a  veil,  heavy 
with  perfume,  from  one  of  the  satin-covered  boxes  and  fas- 
tened it  around  her  daughter's  head.  "  There!  Don't  you 
look  grown-up?  " 

"  Oh,  Mother!     May  I  wear  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

Rita  flung  her  arms  about  Lilias'  neck  and  kissed  her. 
"  You  are  such  a  darling,  Mother." 

Lilias  went  back  to  her  bed.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  show 
some  interest  in  clothes,  Rita.  I  was  afraid  last  winter  that 
you  were  going  in  for  dress-reform." 

"Mother! "  Rita  laughed  and  hurried  back  to  her  own 
room  to  stand  before  the  mirror  and  admire  herself.  The 
cape  came  almost  to  her  ankles  and  was  edged  with  heavy 
silk  fringe;  Lilias  had  set  the  small  hat  a  little  at  one  side 
of  her  head.  And  the  veil  was  exquisite.  Rita  snatched  her 
hand-mirror  from  her  bureau  to  admire  the  way  it  empha- 
sized her  small  nose,  her  wide  green  eyes.  She  smiled  as  she 
looked  at  her  reflection ;  she  was  so  tall  now.  She  was  really 
growing  up.  Why,  she  might  be  at  least  twenty — almost 
old!  She  turned  and  pirouetted  before  the  glass  until  a 
glance  at  the  clock  showed  her  that  she  must  hurry. 

Unconsciously  she  shortened  her  gait  as  she  walked  along 


PROLOGUE  149 

the  street,  and  hailed  a  'bus.  She  looked  so  pretty!  Her 
cheeks  grew  pink  as  the  woman  in  the  seat  opposite  her 
surveyed  her  clothes.  She  was  chic! 

At  Lincoln  Square,  she  tripped  gaily  off  the  'bus  and 
hurried  along  Sixty-seventh  Street  to  the  apartment  house 
that  edged  the  park. 

"  Miss  Woodward,"  she  said  importantly  to  the  boy  at 
the  telephone.  She  stepped  into  the  elevator  daintily,  hold- 
ing up  her  cape  with  her  white  gloved  hand.  The  door  of 
the  apartment  opposite  the  elevator  opened  as  she  stepped 
out.  "  Fran!  "  She  flung  her  arms  about  her  friend,  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  My  Lord,  Rita,  I'm  glad  to  see  you!  "  Fran  drew 
her  into  the  room,  and  they  sank  down  on  the  couch,  their 
arms  still  about  each  other.  "How  pretty  you've  grown! 
My  dear,  you  look  as  old  as  I  do!  " 

Rita  flushed  happily.  "  Sit  still,  Fran,  and  let  me  look 
at  you!  "  she  said.  She  pushed  Fran  away  from  her,  and 
sat  staring. 

Fran  too,  had  dressed  for  the  occasion.  She  was  in  a 
tea-gown  of  oyster  white  satin,  with  a  string  of  white  coral 
beads  about  her  neck.  Her  skin  was  almost  as  white  as 
her  dress,  and  her  lips  and  hair  were  a  vivid  red  and  black 
contrast. 

"  Have  I  changed?  "  she  asked. 

"  You're  ever  so  much  prettier,"  said  Rita.  "  Oh,  you're 
lovely,  Fran!  " 

Fran  laughed.  Rita  hated  to  take  off  her  cape  and  the 
small  hat  and  veil,  because  she  looked  so  much  younger  in 
her  last  summer's  green  dress.  She  made  a  face  at  herself 


150  PROLOGUE 

in  the  mirror  as  she  stood  arranging  her  hair,  and  then 
pounced  suddenly  on  a  Chinese  coat  of  yellow  brocade  that 
was  thrown  over  one  of  the  chairs. 

"  Let  me  wear  it,  Fran?  " 

"  Of  course." 

Rita  slipped  the  coat  over  her  shoulders  and  stood  admir- 
ing the  small  round  mirrors  that  edged  it. 

"  It's  really  an  old  one,"  said  Fran.    "  I  like  it  especially." 

Rita  stood  looking  around  the  room.  It  was  as  much 
suited  to  Fran  as  the  white  negligee  she  wore;  papered  and 
painted  in  pale  cream  color  that  was  interrupted  by  vivid 
Bakst  prints  and  flaming  posters.  The  furniture  was  of  a 
light  wood,  upholstered  in  gay  brocades,  draped  with  bright 
pieces  of  silk  and  Chinese  embroidery.  On  a  brilliant  green 
table,  a  copper  bowl  of  incense  was  sending  up  blue-gray 
smoke  spirals;  above  it  hung  a  mirror  framed  with  heavy 
Chinese  gilded  wood  that  gave  the  glass  the  effect  of  being 
as  deep  as  water  in  a  well. 

"  The  place  is  lovely,  Fran!  "    Rita  said. 

"  Isn't  it  though?  I've  just  got  it  in  order.  Dad  got 
married  after  all,  you  know,  and  he  was  so  happy  that  he 
raised  my  allowance.  And  now  I've  got  an  engagement." 

"  An  engagement!  You  mean — on  the  stage?  Really?  " 
Rita  sat  down  on  the  puffy  black  velvet  cushion  at  Fran's 
feet,  and  stared  up  at  her  adoringly. 

"  Of  course,  silly.  I  was  playing  in  vaudeville  all  last 
spring,  you  know." 

"  Buf  I  didn't!  "  Rita  said  ecstatically.  "  How  wonder- 
ful! " 

"  It  wasn't  wonderful,"  Fran  said.  "  But  it  was  training. 


PROLOGUE  151 

And  now  I  have  a  small  part  in  a  regular  show — and  I'm 
going  to  understudy  Leslie  Lorraine." 

"  Fran!  "  Rita's  eyes  grew  wider  and  rounder  as  she 
watched  her  friend. 

"  Oh,  I'm  coming  up  in  the  world,"  Fran  said,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "  I— oh,  there's  the  bell." 

Rita  watched  her  as  she  walked  gracefully  towards  the 
door;  the  white  satin  showed  the  slim  lines  of  her  figure; 
she  looked  very  beautiful  and  romantic  to  Rita. 

"  Lloyd,  my  dear.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Wasn't  sure 
you'd  come.  I  want  you  to  meet  Rita  Moreland.  She — " 

"  We  know  each  other,"  Lloyd  Evans  said.  He  walked, 
smiling,  toward  Rita.  "  How  are  you,  Rita?  " 

"  Can't  you  see?  "  she  asked.  "  Don't  you  think  I'm 
brown  and  fat  and  healthy  looking?  " 

"  You're  brown  and  lovely  looking,"  he  said.  "  And  now," 
as  Fran  sat  down  on  one  of  the  puffy  pillows,  "will 
you  kindly  tell  me  how  you  happen  to  know  each 
other?  " 

"  But  we've  known  each  other  for  ages!  "  Rita  said. 

"  We  went  to  school  together,"  said  Fran. 

"  Went  to  school  together !  "  Lloyd  repeated. 

Fran  pouted  prettily.  "  He  thinks  I'm  at  least  forty- 
five,  you  know,"  she  said  to  Rita,  looking  at  Lloyd  while 
she  spoke.  "And  he  hasn't  even  the  good  grace  to  conceal 
it." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Lloyd  said.    "  But— that  is—" 

The  bell  rang  again. 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  he  said  fervently,  and  smiled  at 
Rita.  But  Rita  felt  suddenly  feminine. 


152  PROLOGUE 

"  I  think  you're  unflattering,  too,"  she  said,  mimicking 
Fran's  pout.  "  Do  you  think  I  belong  in  the  school-room, 
or  did  you  think — " 

"  Rita  please!  "  he  protested.  "  Fow're  not  going  to  start 
with  these  female  ways!  " 

"  Why  not?  "  Rita  asked.  "  You  don't  expect  me  to  be 
masculine,  do  you?  " 

Lloyd  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment,  and  Rita  did 
not  lower  her  eyes.  "  Not  now,  my  dear,"  he  said  at  length. 
"  Perhaps  I  did  once." 

Fran  was  standing  at  the  door,  talking  with  her  third 
guest.  He  was  a  tall,  blond  man,  with  many  teeth  which 
gleamed  as  he  talked. 

"  The  flowers  are  lovely,"  Fran  said,  and  Rita's  gaze 
rested  for  a  moment  on  the  translucent  bowl  of  alabaster, 
heaped  with  yellow  and  lavender  orchids.  "  Rita  dear,  I 
want  you  to  meet  Edward  Sibley." 

Rita  held  out  her  hand,  and  now  she  had  learned  not  to 
rise  like  a  small  girl.  Mr.  Sibley  bowed  long  over  her  hand, 
and  Rita  snatched  it  away  a  little  hurriedly. 

"  Rita  and  I  went  to  school  together,"  Fran  repeated,  as 
though  there  were  some  distinction  in  the  fact.  After  all, 
Fran  was  not  more  than  twenty.  "  Rita  is  Webster  More- 
land's  daughter — the  architect,  you  know." 

"  Oh?  "  Mr.  Sibley  looked  at  Rita  and  smiled.  "  I 
have  met  your  mother,  Miss  Moreland.  A  very  lovely 
woman." 

"  Mother  is  lovely,"  Rita  agreed.  She  disliked  Sibley's 
smile.  "  Father  and  I  think  she's  the  loveliest  woman  in 
the  world,"  she  added  a  little  defiantly. 


PROLOGUE  153 

Sibley  smiled  again  and  nodded.  Rita  wondered  what  he 
would  do  if  she  threw  a  pillow  at  him. 

A  small  Japanese  appeared  at  the  heavy  white  curtains 
that  led  into  the  dining-room.  "Luncheon,  Madame,"  he 
said,  and  Fran  rose. 

The  dining-room  was  even  more  lovely  than  the  living- 
room.  The  walls  were  covered  with  a  gilded  cloth  of  coarse 
weave,  and  the  wood-work  was  a  shiny  green  that  looked  like 
lacquer.  The  eight-sided  table  was  of  lacquer  and  the  small 
chairs  that  were  drawn  up  to  it.  Rita  looked  at  Fran 
curiously.  It  was  strange  to  think  of  the  girl  she  had 
known  at  boarding-school  as  the  mistress  of  this  exquisite 
apartment. 

There  was  a  cocktail  at  each  place,  resting  on  a  small 
lacquer  plate.  Rita  had  not  intended  to  drink  hers,  but  as 
she  saw  Lloyd's  eyes  watching  her  curiously,  she  lifted  her 
glass  deliberately,  and  drank  with  the  rest. 

The  luncheon  conversation  was  delightful.  For  the  most 
part  it  was  about  the  stage,  or  rather  about  the  people  who 
played  on  it.  Rita  listened  excitedly.  This  was  a  new  New 
York,  a  New  York  that  was  as  gay  as  Broadway  and  as 
intimate  as  the  teas  at  Martha  Webb's. 

"  Miss  Moreland  is  not  in  the  profession,  is  she?  "  Sibley 
asked  Fran,  and  Rita  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  before,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. "What  ever  happened  to  the  little  theater  Peg 
Norris  and  Martha  Webb  and  Lucy  O'Day  were  start- 
ing? " 

"  I  hadn't  heard  of  it,"  Fran  said. 

"  Oh,    yes,"    said    Sibley    thoughtfully.     "  Downtown. 


154  PROLOGUE 

All  sorts  of  highbrow  stuff — blank  verse  and   that   rot. 
They're  opening  in  a  few  weeks,  I  believe." 

"  John  Cook  has  a  play,"  Lloyd  put  in. 

Fran  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed.  "  Johnny  Cook!  " 
she  said.  "  Oh,  let's  make  up  a  party  and  go  down  and  see 
them.  I'd  adore  to  see  a  play  of  Johnny's.  He's  such  a 
serious-minded  old  donkey.  Let's.  You'll  come,  Rita?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  wouldn't  miss  it,"  said  Sibley.    "  I'll  get  seats,  Fran." 

"Oh,  it  will  be  delicious!  "  Fran  said,  and  Rita  felt 
suddenly  uncomfortable  at  her  friend's  laughter.  She  did 
not  want  to  go  down  to  laugh  at  the  little  theater  she  had 
seen  born.  But  perhaps  they  weren't  going  to  laugh  at  it. 
"  You'll  come  here  first  for  supper,"  said  Fran.  "  Mr. 
Sibley,  can't  you  induce  that  southern  aunt  of  yours  to 
send  us  up  another  ham?  Nothing  like  saving  money,  you 
know,  Rita." 

Rita  avoided  Lloyd's  eyes. 

"  Sure  I'll  get  her  to,"  Sibley  agreed.  "  And  I'll  bring 
some  wine." 

"  Splendid!  "  said  Fran. 

They  finished  luncheon,  and  went  back  into  the  living- 
room. 

"  I've  got  to  hurry  along,  Fran,"  Mr.  Sibley  said,  looking 
at  his  thin  gold  watch.  "  You're  having  dinner  with  me 
tonight?  " 

"  If  you  like.  Good-bye."  Fran  held  out  her  hand,  and 
Sibley  closed  the  door  behind  him  quietly.  "  I  don't  like 
that  man  much,"  she  said,  looking  after  him  speculatively, 
"  He  rather  hates  himself,  don't  you  think,  Lloyd?  " 


PROLOGUE  155 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right,"  Lloyd  said.  "  I've  got  to  go,  too, 
Fran.  You  must  remember  that  I'm  a  working  man  these 
days." 

"Poor  little  Lloyd!"  Fran  rose  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  black  velvet  couch.  "  You'll  stay  for  a  while, 
Rita?  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Rita  nodded. 

"  Good-bye,"  Lloyd  said,  taking  her  hand  for  a  moment. 
"  Good-bye,  Fran."  His  voice  changed  almost  impercep- 
tibly as  he  turned  to  his  hostess;  Rita  wondered  if  she  had 
imagined  it.  Her  loyalty  to  her  friend  was  suffering  as 
Fran  walked  out  to  the  elevator  with  Lloyd,  stood  talking 
with  him.  Fran  seemed  almost — cheap.  She  shook  the 
thought  out  of  her  head  impatiently.  She  was  a  silly  little 
prig.  There  was  no  reason  why  Mr.  Sibley  should  not  bring 
ham  and  wine  that  he  was  going  to  partake  of,  even  if 
Fran  did  not  like  him.  After  all,  people  were  differ- 
ent. 

"  I'm  glad  they're  gone,"  Fran  said,  and  it  was  the  old 
Fran  of  boarding-school  who  curled  up  at  one  corner  of  the 
broad  couch.  "  Men  are  such  a  bore — but  of  course  we 
couldn't  get  along  without  them." 

"  No,"  Rita  agreed,  although  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  got  along  very  well  without  them.  Men  never  came 
to  see  her.  Of  course  she  had  gone  about  with  them  a  little, 
but  that  had  been  different. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Rita?  " 

"  Still  tutoring  for  college.    I  enter  next  year." 

"Heavens!     Still  in  school.    Don't  you  hate  it,  Rita?  " 

Rita  looked  at  her  friend  doubtfully.    "No,"  she  said. 


156  PROLOGUE 

"  I'm  interested  in  it.  There  isn't  anything  I  want  more  to 
do." 

"  But  there  are  so  many  things  in  life,"  said  Fran.  "  Oh, 
I  don't  know.  I'd  like  to  study  a  bit,  too.  I  am  studying 
for  that  matter.  French  and  voice." 

"  Really? "  Rita  folded  her  hands  about  her  knees. 
"  What  for?  " 

"  Oh,  French — just  for  the  impression  it  makes,  I  guess. 
It  may  come  in  handy  some  day.  Voice  for  musical  comedy 
in  case  I  can't  get  away  with  drama." 

"  Oh." 

Fran  lighted  a  cigarette  thoughtfully.    "  Smoke,  kid?  " 

Rita  shook  her  head.  "  I  promised  my  tutor  I  wouldn't," 
she  said.  "Last  year.  Not  until  I'm  older." 

"  Your  tutor?  "  Fran  sat  up  and  looked  at  her.  "  What's 
he  like?  " 

"Oh,  he's  darling,"  Rita  said  enthusiastically.  "Tall 
and  sort  of  nice  grayish  hair  and  blue  eyes.  And,  Fran,  I 
simply  adore  studying  with  him." 

"  In  love  with  you?  "  Fran  asked. 

"  In — love  with  me?  "  Rita  repeated.    "  Of  course  not." 

Fran  laughed.  "  Well,  it  was  a  perfectly  natural  ques- 
tion, wasn't  it?  When  did  you  meet  Evans?  " 

"  Lloyd?  At  Mother's  last  year.  I  saw  him  occasionally 
last  winter.  He's  very  nice,  I  think." 

"  Oh — yes,"  Fran  admitted.  "  Sort  of  serious-minded 
individual." 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  think  so  at  all!  "  Rita  said.  "  Why—" 
She  stopped  suddenly,  wondering  what  Fran  would  think  of 
Martha  or  Peg. 


PROLOGUE  157 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right,"  said  Fran  carelessly.  "  I  think  I 
just  have  a  grouch  against  him  because  he  doesn't  fall  in 
love  with  me." 

"  But — do  you  want  him  to?  " 

Fran  leaned  over  and  pounded  her  cigarette  vigorously. 
"  Oh,  no  more  than  anyone  else.  People  should  fall  in 
love  with  one,  though,  don't  you  think?  " 

"  Should  they?  "  Rita  thought  about  it  gravely,  while 
Fran  watched  her,  smiling.  She  thought  of  Roy — curious, 
she  had  not  thought  of  him  since  his  last  letter.  And 
Bobby  ..."  Why,  I  suppose  they  should,"  she  admitted. 
"  I  just  hadn't  thought  about  it  before." 

Fran  was  silent,  and  Rita's  thoughts  unraveled  slowly. 
Roy — and  Bobby.  And  Lloyd.  Lloyd?  She  smiled  sud- 
denly. "  Oh,  Fran,  I  do  like  you!  "  she  said.  "  And  you're 
so  pretty."  They  sat  quietly  again  for  a  moment,  and  Rita 
glanced  at  her  wrist-watch.  "  I've  got  to  go,  Fran.  I'm 
so  sorry.  But — I  forgot  all  about  it.  Mother  and  I 
were  going  shopping."  She  put  her  hat  and  cape  on 
quickly. 

"  You'll  come  over  again  soon,  dear,  won't  you?  "  Fran 
asked.  "  You're  about  the  only  girl-friend  I  ever  had.  And 
it's  nice  to  have  a  woman  around  and  to  be  able  to  be 
natural  and  not  worry  whether  your  nose  is  shiny  or  not, 
isn't  it?  " 

"  Why— yes,"  said  Rita. 

The  park  looked  so  alluring  as  she  stepped  out  to  the 
sidewalk  that  she  wandered  through  it  and  across  to  Fifth 
Avenue  before  she  remembered  that  she  must  meet  her 
mother.  And  she  suddenly  realized  that  she  wanted  many 


158  PROLOGUE 

things — a  negligee — she  had  never  had  a  really  pretty  negli- 
gee— and  some  French-heeled  slippers,  and — and  a  lipstick! 


Ill 

Rita  was  having  luncheon  with  Martha  and  Lucy  at  a 
small  tea-room  a  few  doors  from  Broadway.  It  was  good 
to  see  them  again,  good  to  learn  of  the  crowd  and  what  they 
were  doing. 

"  Any  scandal  or  anything?  "  Rita  asked,  smiling,  when 
they  had  paused  breathlessly. 

"  Scandal?  "  Martha  said. 

Rita  laughed  at  her  surprise.  Scandal  belonged  with 
Fran's  friends,  not  with  the  crowd.  That  was  the  trouble 
with  Martha's  teas — conversation  was  too  impersonal,  on 
too  high  a  plane  to  be  continued  indefinitely.  "  Just  gossip, 
I  meant." 

"  But  I've  been  telling  you  what  we've  been  doing.  You 
knew  that  John  Cook  was  engaged?  " 

"  No!     To  whom?  " 

"  Oh — some  girl  from  uptown.  We  haven't  seen  much 
of  her.  We're  so  busy,  Rita." 

Yes,  they  were  busy.  Perhaps  that  was  it.  The  lazi- 
ness of  the  Larchborough  summer  was  still  on  Rita;  the  fun 
of  rowing  on  the  lake,  of  listening  to  Bobby's  chatter. 

"  This  is  your  last  year  of  tutoring,  isn't  it?  "  asked  Lucy. 

"  If  I  study  hard.  I  was  terribly  behind,  you  see — 
those  three  years  at  boarding-school  didn't  teach  me  any- 
thing." 

"  They  never  do.    Lord,  education — "    Martha  lifted  her 


PROLOGUE  159 

hands  and  dropped  them  wearily  on  the  table.  "  Which 
reminds  me  that  we're  having  a  meeting  on  the  luncheon 
club  tomorrow,  and  Elsie  Wagner  is  going  to  talk  on  educa- 
tion for  women.  Want  to  come?  " 

"  I'd  love  it,"  Rita  said. 

In  the  dingy  restaurant  where  the  club  met  the  next  day, 
it  was  strange  to  think  of  Fran's  exquisite  apartment.  It 
belonged  in  another  world.  Rita  listened  to  the  speaker 
attentively,  but  her  thoughts  wandered  towards  the  new 
clothes  she  was  having  made,  towards  the  dance  to  which 
Fran  was  taking  her  in  a  few  days.  There  was  a  burst  of 
applause,  and  a  sudden  babel  of  voices.  The  women  crowded 
about  Miss  Wagner,  with  their  questions  and  appreciation, 
and  Rita  joined  Martha  and  Lucy. 

She  paused  at  a  mirror  to  adjust  her  veil,  and  powder  her 
nose,  and  Martha  laughed. 

"  You're  getting  to  be  a  regular  flapper,  Rita,"  she 
said. 

Rita  flushed  resentfully.  Martha  would  be  considerably 
improved  by  a  little  powder,  she  thought,  and  then  felt 
rather  ashamed  of  herself. 

"  Tea  on  Thursday  still?  "  she  asked. 

"  Every  Thursday,"  said  Lucy.  "  It's  fun  to  have  you 
back  with  us,  Rita." 

"  It's  fun  to  be  back,"  Rita  said.  But  she  wondered,  as 
she  walked  quickly  towards  her  house,  whether  she  was  back, 
back  to  the  New  York  and  the  interest  of  the  year  before. 
She  had  changed,  slightly  perhaps,  but  still  changed,  and 
now  Fran  and  the  daintiness  of  her  apartment,  the  charm  of 
her  clothes,  was  offering  an  alternative  to  the  old  conversa- 


160  PROLOGUE 

tions  of  the  Thursday  teas.     "  I  wonder  if  I  am — back,"  she 
said  to  herself  thoughtfully. 

IV 

Rita  stood  in  the  center  of  her  room  looking  at  the  dis- 
order it  had  taken  almost  an  hour  to  create.  The  sleeves 
of  her  blue  middy  blouse  were  rolled  up  over  her  small  arms, 
and  there  was  a  smudge  of  dirt  on  her  cheek.  She  had 
taken  all  the  pictures  from  her  walls  and  heaped  them  on 
her  bed;  her  bureau  and  shelves  were  bare.  Lilias,  walking 
through  the  hall,  glanced  in,  and  stopped,  horrified,  at  the 
door. 

"  Rita  Moreland,  whatever  in  the  world  are  you  doing?  " 

Rita  turned  and  smiled  ruefully.  "  I  don't  like  my  room, 
Mother.  I  wish  I  could  have  it  repapered." 

"  Repapered?  But  that  yellow  paper  was  put  on  last 
year."  Lilias  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  Yes.  But  I  didn't  choose  it.  Mother,  don't  you  think 
a  woman's  bedroom  should  represent  her?  " 

Lilias  pushed  aside  some  books  and  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  and  laughed.  "  Rita,  my  dear,  if  you  can 
make  any  room  represent  you,  I'll  give  you  unlimited  money 
to  do  it  with,"  she  said,  and  began  laughing  again. 

Rita  laughed  too.  "  I'll  take  you  up  on  it,  though, 
Mother,"  she  said.  "  Let  me  do  what  I  like  with  my  room — 
let  me  buy  some  furniture — and  if  it  doesn't  represent  me 
when  I'm  through,  I'll  pay  you  back  out  of  my  allowance." 

Lilias  was  still  laughing.  "  I  think  it's  an  unfair  bar- 
gain, Rita,"  she  said,  "  because  the  good  Lord  alone  knows 


PROLOGUE  161 

what  you  are — I  don't.  You've  changed  so  extraordinarily 
since  last  summer.  But  go  ahead.  How  much  money  will 
it  take?  " 

Rita  hesitated.  She  would  have  liked  to  add  it  up,  but 
her  mother  might  change  her  mind.  "  Most  a  hundred 
dollars,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  give  you  a  hundred  and  fifty,  Rita,"  said  Lilias. 
"  This  is  too  good  to  miss." 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Rita,  holding  out  her  hand. 

Lilias  put  her  hands  to  her  head.  "  Come  in  my  room 
and  I'll  write  out  a  check,"  she  said  weakly. 

The  painters  and  paperers  worked  for  a  week.  No  one  was 
allowed  in  Rita's  room,  and  when  finally  the  workmen  left, 
she  hurried  upstairs  to  survey  their  work.  The  walls  were 
papered  in  gray  and  silver  stripes,  and  the  woodwork  was 
Rita's  favorite  green,  the  green  of  her  eyes,  the  green  that 
was  most  becoming  to  her  red  hair.  Her  bed  had  been  dis- 
carded, the  spring  and  mattress  laid  on  a  low  framework 
that  made  a  most  successful  couch.  A  round  tea-table 
was  at  one  side  of  the  bed;  across  the  room  a  broad  gray 
table  filled  the  space  beneath  her  book-cases,  and  a  green 
quill  pen  shivered  in  a  bronze  ink-well. 

Her  dressing-table  crowded  the  room;  its  top  was  littered 
with  new  green  glass  bottles  and  boxes,  and  its  one  drawer 
was  lined  with  a  long,  mattress-like  sachet  pad.  Her  bureau 
was  hidden  in  her  closet,  which  was  luckily  large.  The  few 
pictures  she  hung  were  suspended  by  Chinese  cords  with 
fluttering  tassels,  and  the  precious  encyclopedia  which  her 
father  had  given  her  the  Christmas  before  was  crowded  be- 
tween her  dressing-table  and  her  work-desk. 


162  PROLOGUE 

"  You  can  come  and  see  my  room  tonight  after  supper," 
she  told  her  mother  and  father  that  evening.  They  laughed 
as  she  hurried  upstairs.  When  finally  they  followed  her 
and  knocked,  she  called  out  excitedly,  "  Just  a  min- 
ute! " 

They  entered  and  found  her  sitting  on  the  couch, 
resting  her  head  against  a  black  satin  pillow.  She 
looked  very  slender  and  wistful  in  her  negligee  of  green 
chiffon. 

"  It's  very  pretty,  Rita,"  her  father  said.  "  A  little  Irish 
perhaps.  I  see  that  the  '  Child's  Wonder  Book  '  is  missing, 
but—" 

"  Shut  up,  Web,"  Lilias  said  suddenly,  and  they  both 
turned  to  look  at  her.  Her  eyes  were  wet  as  she  sat  down  on 
the  couch  and  pulled  Rita  into  her  arms.  "  You  darling!  " 
she  said.  "  You  sweet  dear  little  thing." 

"  It's  very  nice,  Rita,"  her  father  repeated,  looking  at 
his  wife  questioningly. 

"  Sit  down,  Web,"  Lilias  said,  making  room  for  him 
beside  her.  "  Web,  our  daughter  is  growing  up." 

Webster  Moreland  nodded. 

"  She's  really  growing  up,"  Lilias  repeated  solemnly. 
"  Oh,  Rita — I  wonder — have  I  been  a  good  mother  to  you, 
Rita?  " 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  apprehensively,  and  hoped  that 
she  was  not  going  to  cry.  He  hated  sentiment — unless  he 
was  feeling  it  himself. 

"  Of  course  you  have,  Mother  darling,"  said  Rita,  kissing 
her.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  happy." 

"  I'm  happy,  too,"  Lilias  said,  and  now  her  eyes  were 


PROLOGUE  163 

bright  and  she  was  smiling.  "Will  you  join  us, 
Web?  " 

"  Join  you?  " 

"  Mother  means  are  you  happy,  too?  "  Rita  asked,  smil- 
ing at  him. 

"  Of  course.  Your  room's  very  nice,  Rita.  I've  got  to 
go  downstairs  and  work  now." 

Rita  and  Lilias  watched  him,  as  he  went  out  of  the 
room. 

"  Aren't  men  funny?  "  asked  Rita. 

Her  mother  smiled  sadly.  "  Some  men,"  she  said.  "  You 
like  your  room,  then,  Rita?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mother."  It  was  nice  to  have  her  own  room, 
and  to  have  her  mother  sitting  in  it  with  her.  "  Stay  and 
talk  with  me,  Moth." 

"All  right,  dear.  You're  going  out  tomorrow  night, 
aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes.  Fran  and  Lloyd  and  Mr.  Sibley  and  I  are  hav- 
ing supper  at  her  house,  and  then  we're  going  to  the  open- 
ing of  the  theater." 

"  Sibley?  "  Her  mother  was  silent  for  a  minute.  "  Ed 
Sibley?  " 

"  Yes,  I'd  forgotten — he  said  he  knew  you." 

"  Yes.  He  knew  me."  Lilias  hesitated,  and  played  with 
one  of  the  tassels  on  her  daughter's  negligee.  "  Where  did 
you  meet  him?  " 

"  At  Fran's." 

"  Do  you  like  him?  " 

"  No." 

"  No,"  Lilias  repeated  musingly.     She  looked  at  Rita 


164  PROLOGUE 

closely  for  a  minute.  "  I  wish  you'd  bring  Fran  Woodward 
over  for  luncheon  some  day  soon,"  she  said.  "  I'd  like  to 
meet  her." 

"I'd  love  to,"  Rita  said.  "I'm  glad,  Mother— you've 
never  been  much  interested  in  my  friends.  Shall  I  ask  Lloyd 
and  Mr.  Sibley?  " 

'"My  God,  no!"  Lilias  laughed  uncertainly.  "Yes, 
ask  Lloyd,"  she  said.  "  You  and  he  can  talk — I  want  to 
talk  with  Miss  Woodward." 

"  All  right,  dear." 

Still  Lilias  was  thoughtful.  "  You  can  bring  people  here 
whenever  you  want,  Rita,"  she  said.  She  looked  about  the 
room  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  flitting  from  one  thing  to 
another.  "  How  would  you  like  it  if  we  fixed  up  the  old 
nursery  into  a  living-room  for  you?  "  she  asked.  "  You 
could  have  an  afternoon — or  evening,  if  you  prefer — at 
home  here  every  week,  and  have  your  friends  come 
in." 

"  Mother!  Oh,  Mother,  what  makes  you  so  good  to 
me?" 

Lilias  laughed.  "  Perhaps  it's  because  you're  so  pretty, 
Rita,  and  because — " 

"  Because  what,  Mother?  " 

"  Oh — because  you're  my  daughter,"  she  finished,  and 
laughed.  "  I'm  going  to  run  away,  too,  Rita,  and  leave  you 
to  your  glory.  Good-night,  dearest." 

"  Good-night,  Mother." 

Rita  sat  looking  after  her  mother  for  a  moment.  She 
felt  that  her  mother  had  gone  into  her  room  to  cry,  and 
she  did  not  understand.  For  a  moment  she  puzzled;  then 


PROLOGUE  165 

she  ran  over  to  her  dressing-table  and  sat  down.  Life  was 
so  full,  and  New  York  so  wonderful.  And  she  was  growing 
up.  At  last  she  was  really  growing  up! 

"  Oh,  I  love  life!  "  she  said,  half  aloud,  and  her  eyes 
smiled  back  at  her  from  the  mirror. 


CHAPTER     FOUR 


RITA  did  not  enjoy  the  opening  of  the  little  theater.  It 
was  crowded  and  badly  ventilated;  the  peacock  blue  curtain 
jerked  ridiculously.  Fran  and  Mr.  Sibley  were  amused; 
Lloyd  was  at  least  silent.  The  plays  went  fairly  smoothly, 
but  the  actors  were  plainly  no  actors  at  all,  merely  Martha 
or  Peg  or  Jim  in  more  or  less  improvised  costumes.  Rita 
recognized  many  things  from  Martha's  and  Peg's  apart- 
ments in  the  stage  settings.  She  felt  uncomfortable;  she 
did  not  want  Fran  and  Sibley  to  think  she  lacked  all  sense 
of  humor,  but  she  did  not  feel  like  laughing.  When  the 
curtain  finally  jerked  together  at  the  end  of  the  last  play, 
she  stood  up. 

"I'm  going  to  run  out  and  see  Martha  Webb  for  a 
minute,"  she  said.  She  did  not  want  to  go,  but  she  felt 
that  she  owed  it  to  herself  and  to  them,  to  say  that  she  had 
enjoyed  the  evening,  because  she  so  obviously  had  not. 

They  were  all  crowded  in  the  untidy  room  back  stage. 

"  It  was  splendid,  Martha,"  Rita  said. 

Martha  turned  and  held  out  both  her  hands.  "  Rita!  I 
won't  kiss  you,  because  I'm  all  sticky  with  make-up.  I 
thought  you'd  deserted  us  altogether — it's  ages  since  you've 
been  around.  Did  you  like  us?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Rita  said. 

166 


PROLOGUE  167 

"  It  wasn't  very  noticeable  where  Jim  left  out  a  line  in 
Johnny's  play,  was  it?  "  Peg  asked. 

"  I  didn't  notice  it  at  all,"  Rita  said  truthfully. 

Lucy  O'Day  hurried  across  and  kissed  her.  "  My,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you!  We  thought  you  didn't  like  us  any  more." 

"  Rot,"  Rita  said  uncomfortably.  "  I've  been  awfully 
busy." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Martha.  "  Can  you  come  up  to  my 
place  tonight,  Rita?  We're  having  a  little  party." 

"  I'm  sorry, — I'm  with  some  people." 

"  Then  come  for  tea  on  Thursday.    Be  sure,  dear." 

"  All  right."  She  said  good-bye  hurriedly,  and  joined 
Fran  and  Sibley  and  Lloyd. 

"  Let's  go  somewhere  and  dance,"  Fran  said. 

Rita  hesitated.  "  Fran,  my  head  aches  dreadfully,"  she 
said  finally.  "  Do  you  mind  if  I  just  hop  on  a  'bus  and  go 
home?  I  guess  it  was  the  air  in  that  room." 

"  Poor  kid — no,  of  course  not." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,  Rita,"  said  Lloyd. 

"  Please  don't.    I  can  run  along  just  as  well  as  not." 

"  I've  got  to  go  home,  too,"  he  insisted.  They  walked 
across  to  Fifth  Avenue  together.  "  Does  your  head  really 
ache?  "  he  asked  finally. 

She  looked  up  and  smiled.  "  It  isn't  a  headache,  exactly," 
she  admitted.  "  My  thoughts  are  aching." 

Lloyd  nodded.  "Life's  a  complex  business,  Rita,"  he 
said  sympathetically. 

Rita  alternately  dreaded  and  looked  forward  to  Thursday. 
She  put  on  one  of  her  new  dresses,  half  copied  from  one  of 
Fran's,  and  the  small  hat  and  veil,  the  cape.  Her  new 


i68  PROLOGUE 

slippers  were  highly-heeled  and  frivolous,  and  for  some 
reason  that  she  could  hardly  explain  to  herself,  she  took  a 
taxi  to  the  house  on  West  Twenty-second  Street.  Of  course 
Jim  and  Peg  came  up  at  the  moment,  and  pretended  to  be 
prostrated  with  awe  when  they  saw  her  step  out. 

"  I  hardly  dare  speak  to  you,  Rita,  you  look  so  wealthy," 
Peg  said. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  at  first,"  said  Jim. 

Rita  frowned.  Didn't  people  have  any  sense  at  all? 
They  walked  up  the  stairs  together,  a  long  climb. 

Rita  tried  to  pretend  that  she  was  enjoying  the  tea  as 
much  as  she  had  enjoyed  them  the  winter  before,  but  it  was 
no  use.  The  little  room  was  dark  and  dingy;  the  furnish- 
ings were  obviously  inexpensive,  almost  haphazard  in 
arrangement.  And  Martha  and  Lucy  looked  untidy,  as 
though  their  clothes  had  never  been  pressed;  Lucy's  hands 
were  dirty;  it  was  from  her  pencils,  but  Rita  did  not  like 
it. 

"  Of  course  Karl  Marx  said  it  before  anyone  else," 
Martha  was  saying  to  the  strange  young  man  with  the  red 
necktie.  "He—" 

Karl  Marx.  Oh,  yes,  he  was  that  stupid  creature  who 
wrote  long  books  on  uninteresting  subjects,  clogged  with 
long  words.  Weren't  they  ever  going  to  outgrow  Karl 
Marx?  Rita  had  put  him  out  of  her  mind  years  before. 

Peg  and  Helen  Marvin  were  talking  about  the  war.  "  Oh, 
I  don't  believe  we'll  possibly  come  in  it,"  Peg  was  saying. 

We?  Did  Peg  mean  the  United  States?  The  war?  It 
was  all  so  dull;  Rita  could  not  help  looking  bored.  Finally 
she  sought  out  Jim  Norris  and  chattered  with  him;  it  was 


PROLOGUE  169 

easier  to  talk  with  a  man  than  a  woman  after  all.  She 
decided  abruptly,  as  she  leaned  forward  smiling,  listening 
to  Jim  with  the  flattering  air  of  absorption  she  had  picked 
up  from  Fran,  that  she  did  not  like  women.  She  went  home 
early,  and  felt  an  immense  surge  of  relief  as  the  door  of 
Martha's  apartment  closed  behind  her.  No,  she  had  out- 
grown all  that;  those  interminable  conversations  and  argu- 
ments that  never  arrived  anywhere.  What  was  the  use  in 
worrying  about  abstract  things  when  there  were  so  many 
fascinating  things  in  the  world  that  came  close  to  one's 
life?  Rita  could  not  have  named  any  single  fascinating 
thing,  but  Fran's  apartment,  the  shining  glasses,  the  bright 
pieces  of  brocade,  the  sweet  incense,  were  all  the  setting 
for  them. 

She  walked  slowly  up  the  Avenue,  and  stopped  in  one  of 
the  shops  to  buy  a  small  powder-box.  She  decided  abruptly 
to  telephone  Fran. 

II 

It  was  tea-time  at  Fran's.  Lloyd  was  mixing  cocktails  in 
the  kitchenette,  and  Rita  and  Fran  were  standing  by  the 
window. 

"  You've  got  too  much  red  on  your  lips,"  Fran  said 
abruptly.  "  Run  in  like  a  good  child  and  rub  some  of  it 
off." 

Rita  tossed  her  head.    "  I  liked  it,"  she  said. 

"  Very  likely,"  Fran  answered,  smiling  a  little.  "  But  it 
looks  absurd  on  a  kid  of  your  age.  A  little  is  all  right, 
but — "  Rita  turned  quickly  and  walked  over  to  the  couch 
where  Ed  Sibley  was  sitting. 


170  PROLOGUE 

"  Fran's  been  scolding  me,"  she  told  him,  smiling.  "  She 
says  my  lips  are  too  red.  What  do  you  think  of  them?  " 
She  lifted  her  chin  and  held  her  mouth  up,  rather  as  though 
she  expected  to  be  kissed. 

"  I  think  they're  exquisite,"  he  said.  "  In  fact,  I've  rarely 
seen  lips  that  were  more  charming." 

Rita  wished  regretfully  that  Sibley  was  not  so  old  and 
that  she  liked  him,  as  she  sat  down  beside  him. 

"  I'm  very  stupid  now,"  he  said.  "  I  can  hear  nothing 
but  that  ice  tinkling  in  the  kitchen." 

"  I  know,"  Rita  said.  "  I'm  dying  of  thirst,  too.  Give 
me  a  cigarette,  will  you — Ed?  " 

Sibley  looked  at  her  through  half  closed  eyes  and  opened 
his  case,  lit  the  cigarette  for  her  deliberately  before  he 
handed  it  to  her.  "  You  look  like  your  mother  today,"  he 
said  abruptly. 

"  Thanks."  Rita  turned  slightly  towards  him,  away  from 
the  others  in  the  room. 

Lloyd  came  in  with  a  tray  of  cocktails,  and  Rita  looked 
up  and  smiled  as  she  took  hers.  Sibley  raised  his  glass. 

"  Let  me  taste  your  drink,"  said  Rita.  "  It  looks  much 
nicer  than  mine."  She  tasted,  and  saw  that  Sibley  turned 
the  glass  to  drink  from  the  edge  her  lips  had  touched. 

"  Want  my  cherry?  " 

"Yes."  She  opened  her  mouth,  and  his  fingers  touched 
her  lips  as  she  took  the  cherry.  They  smiled. 

"  What  are  you  doing  tonight,  Rita?  " 

"  Nothing."    She  waited  expectantly. 

"  I'm  going  to  the  dress  rehearsal  of  Moonshine.  It 
ought  to  be  amusing.  Want  to  come?  " 


PROLOGUE  171 

"  I'd  love  to.  I've  never  been  to  a  rehearsal.  What  does 
one  wear  at  such  functions?  " 

"  Oh — anything.  I've  never  seen  you  in  evening 
dress." 

Rita  smiled.  He  had  seen  her  in  evening  dress,  but  it 
had  been  such  a  girlish  model  that  it  had  passed  unnoticed. 
"  Evening  dress  it  shall  be,"  she  said,  and  wondered  idly 
what  she  would  wear. 

She  said  good-bye  to  Fran  rather  coolly,  and  hurried 
home.  Her  mother  had  not  come  in,  and  she  went  directly 
to  her  room  and  took  Lilias'  black  evening  dress  heavy 
with  sachet,  from  one  of  the  hangers  in  the  closet,  hid  it 
behind  the  dresses  in  her  own. 

"  By  the  way,  Mother,"  she  said  at  dinner,  "  I'm  going 
out  tonight." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  quickly.  "  To  Fran's?  "  she 
asked. 

Rita  hesitated.  She  had  never  lied  before.  "  Yes,"  she 
said. 

Her  mother  said  nothing,  but  after  Webster  Moreland  had 
left  the  table,  she  turned  towards  her  daughter.  "  Fran 
telephoned  this  afternoon  that  she  was  coming  over  here 
tonight,"  she  said. 

Rita  looked  at  her  mother  blankly.  "  Why  did  you  ask 
me  if  I  was  going  to  Fran's,  then?  "  she  asked. 

Lilias  swallowed.  "  Rita,  you  can't  go  out  with  Mr. 
Sibley,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  But  I'm  going."  Rita's  cheeks  were  flushed;  she  looked 
at  her  mother  defiantly. 

"  You're  not,  Rita."    Her  mother's  face  softened  sud- 


172  PROLOGUE 

denly,  "  Oh,  Rita  dear,  won't  you  please  stay  with  me? 
You  see — I  knew  Mr.  Sibley  once." 

"  I  know  him  now,"  Rita  said. 

Lilias  managed  to  remain  patient.  "  Rita,  he  isn't  a — 
a  gentleman.  He  tried  to  make  love  to  me,  and — " 

Rita  laughed.  "  But,  Mother  dear,"  she  said  quietly,  in 
a  cold  voice,  "  I  don't  let  people  make  love  to  me,  you 
see." 

Her  mother's  face  hardened.  Rita  got  up  and  went 
quickly  to  her  room,  locked  the  door.  She  slipped  into  her 
mother's  evening  dress  and  looked  at  her  reflection,  fasci- 
nated. It  was  too  low  over  her  neck,  but  her  skin  was  white 
above  the  soft  black,  and  her  hair  gleamed  like  copper.  She 
found  an  old  jet  pin  that  had  been  in  the  costume  trunk, 
and  thrust  it  in  her  hair.  She  put  her  lipstick  and  powder 
in  her  bag,  found  her  gloves.  It  was  only  half-past  seven; 
Sibley  was  not  going  to  call  until  eight.  She  pulled  on  her 
evening  cape  and  tiptoed  down  the  stairs  quietly.  No  one 
heard  her;  she  did  not  know  where  her  mother  had  gone. 
She  ran  quickly  along  the  street  to  a  drug-store,  hurried 
into  a  telephone-booth.  Finally  she  reached  him. 

"  Ed?  This  is  Rita.  I  had  to  run  out  after  dinner,  and 
I'll  meet  you  at  the  corner  of  our  street  and  Fifth  Avenue. 
All  right?  Fine." 

She  walked  quietly  over  to  the  Avenue,  waited.  In  a  few 
minutes  a  taxi  drew  up,  and  Rita  stepped  inside.  "  I 
brought  you  these  because  they're  almost  the  color  of  your 
hair,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  know  what  you  were  going  to 
wear."  Rita's  eyes  gleamed  with  delight  as  she  took  the 
bouquet  of  yellow-gold  orchids.  She  unfastened  her  cape 


PROLOGUE  173 

to  pin  them  at  her  waist,  and  Sibley's  eyes  rested  for  a 
moment  on  her  white  neck.  Rita  hated  him,  but  after  all, 
he  did  not  matter.  She  was  having  a  wonderful  time. 

The  rehearsal  was  quite  as  fascinating  as  she  had  supposed 
it  would  be.  Afterwards  they  went  to  a  cafe  and  danced, 
and  Rita  had  a  Welsh  rarebit,  partly  because  she  loved  them, 
and  partly  because  that,  too,  was  the  color  of  her  flowers  and 
her  hair. 

"  Your  mother  didn't  want  you  to  come?  "  Sibley  asked, 
as  he  helped  her  into  the  cab. 

"No,"  Rita  said.  She  did  not  care;  she  was  happy, 
radiant.  Sibley  was  close  to  her;  she  could  feel  his  breath 
against  her  hair. 

"  You  use  the  same  perfume  as  Lilias,"  he  said. 

"  Sometimes." 

The  cab  lurched  on  through  the  dark  streets.  Suddenly 
Sibley  leaned  over  and  kissed  her.  For  a  moment  Rita 
meant  to  resist.  But  after  all,  she  thought,  she  did  not  like 
him,  and  she  had  accepted  his  flowers  and  his  hospitality. 
She  turned  her  mouth  to  his.  It  was  not  particularly 
unpleasant,  this  being  kissed,  and  it  made  her  feel  grown- 
up, and  strangely  virtuous  because  she  was  giving  some- 
thing in  return. 

"  Oh,  Rita!  "  he  said.  His  fingers  were  gripping  hard  on 
her  bare  arms. 

Rita  disengaged  herself  quietly.  "  I've  had  such  a  nice 
time,"  she  said.  "  Good-night,  Ed." 

The  outer  door  was  unlocked.  Rita  marveled  at  a  kind 
fate,  and  closed  it  behind  her  quietly. 

"  Rita!  "    Her  mother  was  sitting  at  her  desk  in  the 


174  PROLOGUE 

living-room.  Rita  did  not  even  wind  her  cloak  about  her 
bare  neck  as  she  stepped  inside. 

"  Yes,  Mother." 

Lilias  looked  up  at  her,  startled.  For  several  seconds 
they  stared  at  each  other;  then  Lilias  dropped  her  eyes,  and 
Rita  knew  that  she  had  won.  Her  mother  looked  up  again, 
helplessly,  her  eyes  traveling  slowly  from  Rita's  hair  to  her 
feet.  "  Did  you  have  a  nice  time?  "  she  asked  faintly. 

"  Fair." 

"  Oh."  Still  Rita  stood  quietly  in  the  doorway,  looking 
at  her.  Her  mother  wished  for  a  moment  that  she  had 
been  a  son.  "  Good-night,  Rita." 

"  Good-night,  Mother." 

In  the  morning  when  Rita  came  downstairs,  her  mother's 
desk  was  covered  with  crumpled  papers.  Rita  smoothed 
them  out  curiously.  "  My  dear  Mr.  Sibley  ",  she  read  on 
one;  "  Dear  Ed  ",  on  a  second,  "  Ned  dear  ",  and  finally 
simply  "  Ed  ".  There  was  nothing  more.  Rita  stared  at 
them  for  a  moment,  and  then  ran  into  the  dining-room.  Her 
mother  did  not  come  downstairs  for  breakfast,  and  her  father 
was  engrossed  in  his  newspapers. 

David  Ashley  arrived  at  nine  o'clock,  and  Rita  followed 
him  into  the  schoolroom. 

Ill 

Rita  stood,  hesitating  a  moment,  before  she  knocked  on 
the  door  of  Jim  Morris's  office.  Finally  she  did  knock, 
and  entered.  Jim  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  reading  a  book. 
He  seemed  always  to  be  reading. 


PROLOGUE  175 

"  Why— Rita,"  he  said.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you!  Why 
don't  you  ever  come  to  see  us  any  more?  " 

"  I've  been  so  busy,"  Rita  explained.  "  Jim,  IVe  come 
to  ask  a  very  great  favor  of  you." 

Jim  smiled.    "  Ask  away,"  he  said. 

Rita  sat  down  on  the  chair  beside  him,  and  hesitated. 
"  Jim,  I  want  you  to  lie  for  me." 

"  IVe  lied  before,"  he  answered  cheerfully.  "  What  is 
it?" 

"  Jim,  you  know  how  parents  never  let  you  do  anything?  " 

"  Sure  I  do.  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  way  Peg's 
people  acted  when  I  wanted  to  marry  her." 

Rita  smiled.  "  Well— it's  a  little  like  that,"  she  said. 
"  I  want  you  to  telephone  Mother  and  tell  her  you  want 
me  to  come  down  to  your  place  tonight." 

Jim  looked  at  Rita  closely.  "  Not  doing  anything 
foolish?  "  he  asked. 

"  Xo.  I  just  want  to  go  out  to  dinner  and  then  to 
dance  for  a  while.  I'll — I'll  promise  you  to  be  home  before 
twelve." 

"  Sounds  reasonable,"  he  admitted,  scratching  his  head. 
"  Why  in  thunder  did  you  come  to  me  instead  of  Peg  or 
Martha?  " 

Rita  smiled.    "  I  knew  you'd  understand,"  she  said  softly. 

He  looked  at  her  sharply  again.  "  You  won't  be  sorry, 
Rita?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

He  hesitated.    "  All  right,  then — it's  a  bargain." 

Rita  drew  off  her  glove  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 
"  Thank  you,  Jim,"  she  said  quietly. 


176  PROLOGUE 

"You  look  very  lovely,"  Ed  Sibley  said  that  night  at 
dinner. 

Rita  smiled.    "  Do  I?  "  she  asked. 

He  snorted  a  little  as  she  turned  towards  the  mirror  on 
the  wall  of  the  restaurant.  "  You  know  you  do,  you  devil," 
he  said. 

Rita  smiled.  She  forgot  Sibley,  as  she  looked  about  the 
room. 

"  You  remember  that  picture  I  told  you  about?  "  he 
asked. 

She  nodded. 

"  Fve  bought  it.  Want  to  come  up  to  my  place  a~d  see 
it  after  dinner?  " 

Rita  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  "Yes,"  she  said 
finally. 

She  sat  close  to  the  wall  on  her  side  of  the  taxi  when  they 
started.  They  were  both  silent,  and  she  did  not  look  at 
Sibley.  At  the  door  of  his  apartment  house,  he  paid  the 
driver  and  they  stepped  out.  Rita  started  towards  the 
elevator. 

"  Better  walk  up,"  Sibley  said. 

Rita  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  turned  obediently  to 
the  staircase.  Halfway  up  the  second  flight,  she  turned 
and  looked  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Rita!  "  he  said. 

Rita  stood  for  a  moment,  holding  on  to  the  banister, 
looking  at  him.  She  swallowed.  "  Oh,  I'm  sorry,  Ed,"  she 
said  suddenly.  "  My  head — it  aches  unbearably.  I — I've 
got  to  run  home.  I'll  see  you  soon." 

"  But,  Rita—" 


PROLOGUE  177 

He  turned,  and  she  was  already  on  the  first  flight.  In 
the  street  she  stood  for  a  moment,  wondering  which  way 
to  go.  The  apartment  was  far  uptown.  And  perhaps 
Sibley  was  following  her.  She  began  to  run  quickly  along 
the  street,  looking  back  occasionally.  He  had  not  followed. 
She  was  panting,  and  her  hair  had  partly  fallen  down. 

"What's  your  hurry,  sister?  "  a  man  asked. 

Finally  she  darted  into  a  doorway  and  waited,  her  heart 
thumping.  She  had  no  money,  and  her  high-heeled  slip- 
pers hurt  her.  For  a  moment  she  had  a  mad  thought  of 
taking  them  off  and  walking  in  her  stockings.  She  wanted 
to  cry,  but  she  knew  there  was  not  time.  It  must  be  nearly 
eleven,  and  she  had  promised  Jim  to  be  back  at  the  house 
by  twelve. 

Then  suddenly  she  remembered.  David  Ashley — his 
apartment  was  on  the  same  street.  She  walked  quickly, 
looking  at  the  numbers.  It  was  a  dingy  house,  but  she 
climbed  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell.  A  woman  came  to  the 
door,  an  untidy,  suspicious  looking  woman  in  a  soiled 
kimono. 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Ashley,"  Rita  faltered. 

The  woman's  expression  softened  miraculously.  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Ashley!  "  she  said.  "Are  you  the  sister  he's  told  me 
about?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Rita.  It  didn't  matter  now  whether  she 
lied  or  not. 

"  I  think  he's  still  awake,"  the  woman  went  on.  "  He 
works  late,  Miss  Ashley.  You  ought  to  stop  him." 

Rita  nodded  weakly.  She  climbed  the  dirty  stairs  behind 
the  woman,  and  waited  outside  a  door.  David  Ashley 


178  PROLOGUE 

opened  it ;  he  was  in  sheep-skin  slippers  that  were  too  large 
for  him,  and  a  heavy  bathrobe  was  over  his  suit.  The 
room  was  cold  and  dimly  lighted,  dusky  from  the  smoke  of 
his  pipe.  He  looked  at  Rita  with  no  outward  surprise. 

"  Come  in,  child,"  he  said.  "  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Flaherty." 
The  door  closed,  and  he  turned  towards  Rita,  who  had  begun 
to  cry. 

"  I — I'm  way  up  here  and  I  haven't  any  money  and 
Mother  doesn't  know  where  I  am  and  I'm  cold  and  I  want 
to  go  home,"  Rita  said. 

Ashley  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  and  then  took  off 
his  bathrobe,  wrapped  it  around  her.  Her  bare  neck  was 
like  a  little  girl's;  she  looked  pitifully  young  and  small  and 
frightened. 

"  Wait  till  I  put  on  my  shoes,"  he  said  simply.  In  hardly 
a  moment  he  was  ready,  and  they  went  out  together.  At 
the  second  block  they  found  a  taxi,  and  he  lifted  Rita 
inside,  wrapped  her  in  the  overcoat  he  was  carrying. 

They  were  both  silent  as  the  cab  bumped  down  the  Ave- 
nue, turned  up  the  side  street.  Ashley  opened  the  cab 
door. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said.    "  Thank  you  for  coming  to  me." 

"  Good-night,"  Rita  answered.  "  And — thank  you."  She 
hurried  up  the  stairs  to  her  room,  and  fell  asleep  almost  as 
soon  as  she  was  in  bed. 


PROLOGUE  179 

IV 

Rita  was  sleepy  in  the  morning  when  she  went  down  into 
the  schoolroom.  David  Ashley  was  seated  at  the  desk,  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands.  He  too,  looked  tired. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Ashley,"  Rita  said. 

"  Good-morning,  Rita."  He  did  not  look  up,  and  she 
sat  down  quietly  and  waited. 

"  Rita,  you're  not  doing  good  work  any  more,"  he  said 
abruptly.  "  You've  got  just  this  year  to  prepare  for  college, 
and  you  won't  get  there  unless  you  apply  yourself.  You're 
doing  four  years'  work  in  two,  anyway.  Those  years  at 
boarding-school  didn't  teach  you  anything." 

Rita  nodded. 

"  Rita — if  I  hadn't  known  you  last  year,  I  wouldn't  try 
to  teach  you  anything  this  year.  But  I  know  that  you  can 
learn  if  you  want  to.  Last  year  your  friends  gave  you 
stimulus.  They  made  you  want  to  study.  This  year  your 
friends  are  taking  you  away  from  your  work.  Do  you 
know  that?  " 

"  Yes." 

His  head  still  was  bowed  on  his  hands.  "  Rita,  I'm  only 
a  tutor  who  is  hired  to  train  you  to  enter  college.  I  suppose 
I  have  no  right  to  talk  about  other  things  than  lessons. 
We're  friends,  too,  of  course.  If  I  wanted  to,  I  could  ask 
you  out  to  luncheon  or  tea  with  me.  Outside  your  house  we 
would  not  be  teacher  and  scholar.  But  I'm  not  going  to  do 
that.  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you  here  where  everything  is 
against  me." 

"  There  isn't  anything  against  you  here,  Mr.  Ashley," 


i8o  PROLOGUE 

Rita  said.  "  Except  me.  I'm  against  you  and  against 
myself  and  against  everything." 

He  smiled  faintly.  "  Rita,  what  are  you  doing?  "  he 
asked.  "  What's  the  matter  with  you?  What's  the  matter 
with  Peg  Norris  and  the  people  you  used  to  play  with  last 
year?  " 

Rita  looked  down  at  her  hands.  "  I  thought  it  was  be- 
cause they  were  so — so  young,"  she  said.  "  So  young  and 
enthusiastic.  Perhaps  it's  because  I'm  so  young.  Per- 
haps I'm  younger  this  year  than  I  was  last.  I  don't  know. 
But  I'm  sick  of  talk.  I  want  to  dance  and  have  pretty 
clothes  and  flirt  and — oh,  I  don't  know." 

"  How  old  are  you,  Rita?  " 

"  Seventeen  and  a  half." 

"  You  don't  know  anyone  your  own  age  here  in  New 
York?  " 

"  No.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to,  Mr.  Ashley.  I  hate  people 
my  own  age." 

"  Do  you  know  any  young  men — boys  of  about  twenty, 
I  mean?  " 

Rita  shook  her  head.  "  I  don't  like  them,  Mr.  Ashley. 
I  like  men  to  be  grown-up  and — and  sure  of  themselves. 
I—" 

"  Boys  sometimes  are  that,"  he  answered.  "  You  don't 
talk  much  with  your  mother,  do  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  Or  your  father?  " 

"No." 

"  Who  are  you  going  to  tell  about  last  night?  "  He  looked 
at  her  quickly  again. 


PROLOGUE  181 

"  No  one,"  Rita  said.  "  I  could  tell  Fran — but — I  guess 
I  don't  trust  her.  You  can't  trust  a  woman.  And  I  could 
tell  Lloyd,  but  he'd  think  I  was  such  a  little  fool.  And — 
you  see,  Mr.  Ashley  last  night  I  lied  to  Mother.  I  got — a 
friend  of  mine — to  telephone  her  that  I  was  going  to  be 
with  them.  And  then  I  went  out  to  dinner  with  Ed  Sibley. 
He's  really  a  horrid  person;  old,  and — not  nice.  But — I 
don't  know  why  I  wanted  to  go.  He  makes  me  feel  so 
grown-up  and  so — so  pretty.  After  dinner  we  were  going 
up  to  his  apartment  to  see  a  picture  he  had  bought.  He  said 
not  to  go  in  the  elevator — to  walk.  And  then — halfway  up 
the  stairs — oh,  I  didn't  want  to  go!  I  had  known  all  along 
that  I  shouldn't,  that — I'm  not  so  terribly  young,  Mr.  Ash- 
ley. But  I'd  wanted  to  go  before.  Just  to  see.  And  then 
— his  face — so  I  ran  over  to  you." 

11  I'm  glad  you  did  that,  Rita,"  Ashley  said,  not  looking  at 
her.  "  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  see  this  man  again." 

"  No.    I  never  want  to  see  him  again." 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  "  Rita,  I  wish  you'd 
come  to  me  whenever  you  need  someone,"  he  said  finally. 
"  I — I  suppose  some  people  could  help  you  now.  I  can't. 
I  don't  know  what  to  say.  You'll  just  have  to  fight  things 
out  for  yourself.  But  I  want  you  to  feel  that  whatever 
you  do,  you  can  come  to  me." 

"  I  do,  Mr.  Ashley.    I— I  will." 

"  You  remember  last  year  we  talked  about  New  York? 
And  I  said  you'd  find  your  city  in  time?  You  will,  Rita — 
and  you  must.  I  suppose  you've  got  to  see  it  all  before 
you  can  choose." 

"  I'm  afraid  that's  it,"  Rita  said. 


i82  PROLOGUE 

"  I  wish  my  mother  was  alive,"  he  said  softly.  "  You'd 
like  her.  And  she'd  like  you." 

"  I'm  sure  I  would,"  Rita  answered.  "  You're — awfully 
nice'  to  me,  Mr.  Ashley." 

"Nonsense,"  he  looked  quickly  over  the  papers  on 
his  desk.  "Let's  start  with  mathematics  and  get  it 
over." 

"All  right." 

Rita  opened  her  book,  and  tried  to  listen  to  her  tutor, 
but  her  thoughts  seemed  to  have  scattered  too  far.  His 
thoughts  also  must  have  been  scattered,  for  he  did  not  seem 
to  care  that  when  one  o'clock  came  they  had  accomplished 
nothing. 

V 

April  I7th,  1916. 

Another  spring  has  come — my  second  in  New  York.  Last 
spring  I  hated  to  leave  New  York;  this  spring  I  hate  to 
think  of  going  away,  too,  and  yet  I  understand  what  Mother 
means  by  the  peace  and  quiet  of  Larchborough. 

I'm  terribly  unhappy  and  discontented  and  dissatisfied 
with  myself. 

Last  year  New  York  seemed  such  a  wonderful  place.  I 
didn't  belong,  of  course,  with  the  people  who  interested  me, 
but  I  didn't  care.  I  was  learning  to  belong.  And  then 
last  fall  when  I  was  older  and  ready  to  go  to  Martha's  and 
talk  with  the  rest  of  them — I  didn't  want  to  go.  I  had 
changed  somehow. 

And  I  started  playing  with  Fran  Woodward.  I've  written 
a  lot  in  this  diary  about  parties  at  Fran's,  the  dances  and 


PROLOGUE  183 

the  teas.  But  now  I'm  thinking  of  them  in  another  way.  I 
know  now  that  I  don't  belong  there  either.  At  least  I'm 
ahead  of  where  I  was  last  year,  because  I  know  now  that  I 
don't  want  to  belong. 

I  don't  know  what  I  want.  And  it  seems  as  though  that 
were  the  most  tragic  thing  in  the  world.  I'm  nearly  eighteen 
years  old,  and  I'm  supposed  to  enter  college  next  fall.  J 
don't  even  know  that  I  want  to  do  that. 

The  crowd  at  Martha's  isn't  enough.  I  do  love  pretty 
clothes.  And  I  like  men.  At  Martha's  there  aren't  men 
and  women — there  are  just  people.  And  at  Fran's  there  are 
not  people — only  men  and  women.  It  seems  as  though  there 
must  be  some  solution.  If  only  I  could  fall  in  love;  I  think 
that  is  what  David  Ashley  meant  when  he  asked  me  if  I 
didn't  know  any  young  boys.  Perhaps  falling  in  love 
does  solve  things;  I  suppose  you  haven't  time  to  think 
then. 

But  I  don't  know  whom  to  fall  in  love  with.  Perhaps  if 
someone  should  fall  in  love  with  me,  I  could  fall  in  love 
back.  Fran's  always  half  in  love  with  someone  and  men 
are  always  in  love  with  her.  I  guess  that's  what  I  want — I 
don't  know. 

There'll  be  Bobby  this  summer.  But  Bobby — !  I  can't 
express  the  contempt  I  feel  for  Bobby  as  someone  to  fall  in 
love  with.  No,  I  want  a  man — a  really  grown-up  man. 
But  not  like  Ed  Sibley.  There  must  be  something  in  be- 
tween. 

I  wonder  when  I'll  ever  get  my  life  settled  and  things 
straight.  I'm  so  unhappy — everything  seems  so  useless.  I 
do  wish  we'd  go  to  Larchborough,  so  that  I  can  row  on  the 


i84  PROLOGUE 

lake  and  lie  on  the  grass  under  the  trees,  and  think  and 
think  and  think. 

Thinking  hasn't  helped  so  far,  but  perhaps  it  will  some- 
time. Oh,  I  don't  like  life — I  don't  like  anything.  I  wish 
I  knew  what  I  wanted! 


CHAPTER    FIVE 


IT  was  a  hot  morning  in  July.  The  sun  beat  down  on 
the  oiled  road  until  its  dark  brown  turned  to  gold;  the  sky 
was  heavy  with  heat.  To  Rita,  lying  on  her  back  in  the 
grass,  it  seemed  swaying  nearer  and  nearer,  as  though  soon 
it  would  fall  altogether  and  envelop  the  earth. 

Rita  was  bored — bored  with  everything.  She  yawned  at 
the  thought  of  Bobby  and  his  passion  for  moving-pictures  or 
dances  at  the  pavillion ;  tennis,  rowing,  even  swimming  called 
for  more  exertion  than  she  had  felt  in  days.  She  was  too  hot, 
almost,  to  think.  So  she  lay  quietly  on  her  back,  watching 
the  heavy  clouds,  and  shading  her  eyes  with  her  arm. 

"Rita!  " 

She  rolled  over  lazily,  and  waved  at  a  figure  that  came 
running  towards  her.  The  sun  was  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
could  not  make  out  who  it  was. 

"  Rita,  where  are  you?  " 

"  Here,"  she  sat  up  and  waited.  The  figure  came  nearer 
and  sat  down  on  the  grass  beside  her.  "  Why,  Peg  Norris !  " 

"  We  just  arrived  a  few  hours  ago,"  Peg  said.  "  How 
are  you?  " 

"  Oh — bored  to  death.  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing 
in  this  dump?  " 

185 


186  PROLOGUE 

"  We  came  down  for  our  vacation — Larchborough  sounded 
so  much  cooler  than  any  other  place  we  could  think  of. 
And  I  thought  I'd  like  to  see  you." 

"  You're  a  dear."  Rita  was  almost  jealous  of  Peg,  as 
she  looked  at  her.  She  was  so  radiant,  so  completely  happy 
and  content.  "  You're  fatter,  Peg." 

"  Am  I?  I'm  feeling  splendidly.  We — oh,  Rita,  it's 
nice  to  see  you.  I  was  having  tea  with  David  Ashley  one 
afternoon  last  week  and  we  talked  about  you.  He's  very 
fond  of  you,  Rita." 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  him,"  Rita  said,  pulling  up  a  long 
piece  of  grass  and  chewing  the  sweet  end.  She  wondered 
what  they  had  said  about  her,  why  Peg  and  Jim  had  chosen 
Larchborough  for  their  vacation  instead  of  Provincetown 
where  they  usually  went.  "  He's  been  awfully  nice  to  me. 
Is  Jim  here  now?  " 

"  Yes — over  at  the  hotel.  Are  you  coming  swimming  with 
us  in  about  half  an  hour?  " 

Rita  looked  up  languidly.  "  I'm  so  lazy,"  she  said.  "  Yes, 
I'll  come." 

Peg  smiled  at  her  brightly.  "  There  are  so  many  things 
I  want  to  tell  you,  Rita,"  she  said.  "  I've  never  known  you 
half  as  well  as  I  wanted  to." 

"  Nor  I  you.  New  York's  such  a  big  place,  and — "  Rita 
hurled  away  the  handful  of  grass  she  had  been  plucking 
nervously.  "I'm  terribly  cross  these  days,  Peg.  I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter  with  me." 

"  I  think  I  do,"  Peg  said.  "  Because  I  was  like  that  before 
I  met  Jim — I  was  about  your  age  then.  Nothing  seemed 
worth  while — I  hated  everyone.  I  hated  women  particularly, 


PROLOGUE  187 

I  remember — it's  only  lately  that  I've  learned  how  nice  they 
can  be." 

"  I  don't  like  them  much,"  Rita  admitted.  "  But  I  don't 
like  men  either.  I — oh,  let's  go  swimming  now.  Did  you 
bring  your  suits  over  with  you?  " 

"  I'm  going  back  to  the  hotel  to  change — Jim's  unpacking 
there.  I  just  ran  over  to  see  you  for  a  moment." 

Rita  walked  up  the  path  to  the  house  slowly.  It  was 
nice  to  have  the  Norrises  in  Larchborough,  but  she  could 
find  enthusiasm  for  nothing.  The  years  stretching  ahead 
of  her,  seemed  endless  deserts  of  boredom.  She  put  on  her 
bathing  suit  and  walked  down  to  the  lake.  No  one  was 
swimming;  a  few  boats  drifted  listlessly  about.  She  waited, 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  dock  and  splashing  her  feet  lazily 
in  the  water,  until  Peg  and  Jim  swam  over  to  her. 

They  came  to  the  Moreland  house  for  dinner  that  night; 
Rita  said  little;  she  was  hardly  interested  in  the  news  of 
New  York  or  the  long  talk  that  Jim  and  her  father  plunged 
into  immediately.  She  did  not  care  whether  the  United 
States  went  into  the  war  or  not,  and  she  said  so. 

"Rita!  "    Peg  reproved. 

"  Rita  doesn't  care  about  anything  these  days,"  Lilias 
said.  "  I  don't  know  what's  got  into  her.  Of  course  it 
would  be  terrible.  And  yet — " 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  terrible!  "  said  Peg.  "  I  don't  want 
it — I —  And  yet  sometimes —  It's  all  so  confusing  and 
awful." 

"  I  suppose  Donald  Wells  would  go,"  said  Lilias. 

Donald.  Rita  had  almost  forgotten  Donald  and  Aunt 
Helen  and  the  twins.  It  seemed  so  long  since  she  had  known 


1 88  PROLOGUE 

them.  "  I  wonder  what  Donald  is  doing?  "  she  said,  half 
to  herself. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  Dick  the  other  day,"  said  her  father. 
"  Dick's  business  has  pretty  well  smashed,  and  the  kid  can't 
keep  on  with  college.  They're  sending  him  to  New  York 
in  the  fall  and  want  me  to  look  after  him." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry — about  Uncle  Dick's  business,  I  mean. 
It  will  be  nice  to  see  Donald  again." 

"  What's  he  like— Donald?  "  Peg  asked  Rita  suddenly. 
"  Tell  me  about  him." 

Rita  told  her  listlessly  about  the  Wells  family ;  she  found 
that  she  was  interested  in  spite  of  herself  as  she  began  to 
remember  that  half-forgotten  year. 

"  Why  don't  you  have  the  boy  stay  at  your  house,  Lilias?  " 
Peg  asked.  "  I  should  think  he'd  be  good  fun  for  Rita." 

"  It  would,"  Lilias  said.  "  Although  I  don't  think  any- 
thing could  possibly  make  Rita  smile." 

After  dinner  Peg  drew  Rita  out  to  the  piazza  and  they 
sat  down  on  the  railing,  looking  out  at  the  lake. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next  winter,  Rita?  " 

Rita  shrugged  her  shoulders.    "  College — I  don't  know." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go?  " 

"  No.  But  I  don't  especially  want  not  to  go.  All  I 
want  is — oh,  life  is  such  a  bore." 

Peg's  lips  drew  together  tightly.  "  It  is  not  a  bore,"  she 
said.  "  Not  in  the  least.  And  people  who  think  it  is  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  themselves.  You  know,  Rita,  if  I  were 
you,  I  wouldn't  go  to  college.  It  won't  do  you  any  good — 
I  hate  to  carry  tales  out  of  school,  but  David  Ashley  says 
he  doesn't  think  you  could  pass  your  entrance  exams  any- 


PROLOGUE  189 

way.  There's  no  use  in  wasting  your  time  and  your  parents' 
money  in  going  to  college  and  not  studying.  I  think  you 
ought  to  go  to  work." 

"  Work?  "  Rita  repeated.    "  What  could  I  do?  " 

"  What  could  you  do  if  you  had  to  support  yourself?  " 
Peg  asked  impatiently.  "  Oh,  Rita,  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
be  such  a  little  fool.  I  wish  you'd  take  some  interest  in 
something." 

"  So  do  I,"  Rita  answered,  and  smiled  complacently. 

"  But  you're  not  trying.  You're  just  having  a  lovely  time 
being  unhappy.  You're  wasting  your  energy  feeling  sorry 
for  yourself,  Rita  Moreland!  "  Peg  turned  and  went  into 
the  house,  and  Rita  stared  after  her  angrily. 

Feeling  sorry  for  herself!  Peg's  words  had  hit  her  as 
though  they  had  been  a  blow.  Feeling  sorry  for  herself! 

It  was  just  what  she  had  been  doing. 

She  jerked  her  body  up  and  sat  erect  for  the  first  time 
in  weeks.  She  was  very  angry,  but  she  was  angry  at  her- 
self and  not  at  Peg.  She  wanted  to  pound  on  the  piazza 
railing.  She  jumped  up  and  went  into  the  living-room. 

"  My  Lord,  it's  hot  in  here,"  she  said.  The  conversation 
stopped  abruptly  as  she  came  in,  and  she  walked  about  the 
room  quickly,  banging  open  the  few  windows  that  had  been 
closed.  "  Let's  all  go  swimming  after  it's  darker." 

Peg  turned  and  smiled  slightly  at  her  husband.  "  Sure," 
she  agreed. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  fun,  too,"  Lilias  said. 

When  Rita  finally  got  into  bed,  she  was  cooled  by  her 
swimming  and  the  cold  shower,  and  she  was  not  at  all  sleepy. 
She  lay  awake,  thinking  of  what  Peg  had  said.  Sorry  for 


190  PROLOGUE 

herself.  She  was  a  little  fool.  Sorry  for  herself!  The 
words  echoed  and  re-echoed  through  her  head.  When  she 
awoke  in  the  morning,  she  jumped  out  of  bed  and  put  on 
her  bathing  suit,  swam  about  in  the  lake  before  breakfast. 

Sorry  for  herself! 

She  and  Peg  were  together  almost  every  day  during  the 
month. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  baby,  Rita,"  Peg  said  one  morn- 
ing, as  they  sat  underneath  the  trees  at  the  edge  of  the 
lake. 

"  Oh,  Peg!  " 

"  It's  nice,  isn't  it?  Perhaps  that's  why  I'm  so  awfully 
interested  in  you — I  hope  that  doesn't  make  me  sound 
awfully  ancient  and  far  off.  I'm  more  interested  in  Jim — 
in  your  mother — in  everyone.  It  makes  you  think  more 
about  life." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  like  your  mother,  Rita."  Peg  looked  at  her  steadily, 
but  Rita's  face  was  expressionless.  "  You  don't,  I  know.  I 
think  perhaps  you  will  sometime.  I  hate  to  pull  all  this 
old  stuff  about  after  you're  married — but  that  does  make 
you  understand  things,  you  know." 

"  I  suppose  so."  Rita  was  not  sullen  as  she  had  been  at 
first  when  Peg  had  drawn  her  out,  but  her  answers  were 
short.  Her  mind,  at  least,  was  working  now. 

"  Rita — have  you  ever  talked  with  her  much?  " 

"  No." 

Peg  looked  out  over  the  lake,  and  her  cheeks  were  pink. 
"  I  wonder — Rita,  what  do  you  know  about  life — about  men 
and  women?  I  mean — of  course  you've  had  all  sorts  of 


PROLOGUE  191 

experiences  with  men  and  women.  And  you've  read  a  great 
deal,  and  heard  pretty  raw  conversations  at  Martha's — and 
probably  worse  at  Fran  Woodward's.  But  are  you  sure 
your  ideas  are  all  straight  and  decent?  " 

Rita  flushed,  too.  If  David  Ashley  had  put  the  same 
question  to  her,  she  could  have  answered  as  straightfor- 
wardly. But  with  a  woman  it  was  somehow  different.  Her 
own  sex  embarrassed  her  always.  She  tried  to  shake  off 
the  embarrassment.  She  started  to  speak,  and  Peg  inter- 
rupted her. 

"  Rita,  would  you  like  me  to  talk  to  you  for  a  while  just 
as  if  you  were  a  very  small  girl?  Would  you  like  me  to 
tell  you — about  your  mother,  too?  You  see,  Rita,  I'm 
very  fond  of  Lilias.  She's  done  things  that  are  foolish,  but 
it  hasn't  all  been  her  fault.  You  don't  understand — it  is 
hard  to  understand.  But  I  want  you  to  have  more  sympathy 
for  her.  She  loves  you  so  much — and  you've  been  difficult 
for  her.  You've  been  a  constant  reminder  of  when  your 
father  and  she  loved  each  other." 

Rita  looked  up  at  Peg  gratefully.  "  I  want  to  just  listen, 
Peggy,"  she  said.  "  I — I  can't  ask  things  somehow." 

And  she  listened  while  Peg  talked  to  her.  It  was  late 
when  they  finished,  and  Peg  bore  her  back  to  the  hotel  for 
luncheon. 

"  By  the  way,  Jimmy,"  she  said,  smiling  at  her  husband, 
"  Rita's  decided  she  wants  to  go  to  work  next  fall.  You 
said  you  had  a  place  open  in  your  office — I  think  Rita  could 
do  good  stuff  for  you.  All  advertising  needs  is  imagination 
and  an  experienced  guiding  hand,  anyway.  Want  to  try 
her?  " 


i92  PROLOGUE 

Jim — who  had  already  pronounced  his  willingness  to  take 
Rita  in  his  office — smiled  at  Rita.  "  Sure  I'd  like  to.  Ill 
give  you  twenty  dollars  a  week,  Rita.  And  you've  got  to 
be  there  sharp  at  nine." 

Rita's  eyes  suddenly  brimmed  with  tears.  "You're  so 
good  to  me,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  why  you're  so  good 
to  me." 

"Idiot!  "  Peg's  eyes  were  bright.  "We  welcome  you 
to  the  ranks  of  the  working  girl,  Rita." 

Rita  smiled.  "  Peg,  I  never  sewed  anything  in  my  life," 
she  said,  "  but  I'm  going  to  make  your  baby  a  dress  that 
will  be  so  beautiful  that  everyone  will  think  the  most 
talented  nun  in  the  oldest  convent  in  the  oldest  country 
of  the  world  made  it." 


II 


The  first  two  months  in  New  York  were  a  period  of 
uncertainty  for  Rita.  She  vacillated  between  the  fascination 
of  conversation  and  thought  at  Martha's  and  Peg's  and  the 
gaiety  and  extravagance  of  Fran  Woodward.  And  although 
she  did  not  find  a  third  group  of  people  to  increase  her 
perplexity,  her  work  with  Jim  offered  a  third  and  different 
interest. 

At  first,  she  gave  all  her  time  and  energy  to  the  office; 
she  worked  after  five  at  night,  and  even  brought  pages  of 
copy  home  with  her  to  puzzle  over  and  rewrite.  Although 
that  first  enthusiasm  wore  away,  and  she  confined  her  work 
to  the  hours  between  nine  and  five,  she  was  always  inter- 
ested in  it.  She  delighted  in  Jim's  praise — she  soon  dis- 


PROLOGUE  193 

covered  that  it  was  never  given  lightly — and  earned  it 
often. 

To  her  parents,  she  seemed  subdued,  chastened.  Even 
David  Ashley,  who  asked  her  to  lunch  one  day,  was  pleased 
with  the  change  in  her.  Peg,  alone,  watched  her  at  times 
with  an  uncertain  expression  in  her  brown  eyes;  she  knew 
that  Rita  was  not  so  much  at  peace  with  herself  and  the 
world  as  she  seemed — no  girl  ef  eighteen  is.  And  she  was 
a  little  frightened  by  Rita's  control,  and  sudden  adaptability. 
When  Donald  Wells  arrived  at  the  Moreland  house,  Peg  was 
sitting,  sewing  with  Lilias.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him, 
and  then  smiled  in  relief.  Donald,  indeed,  seemed  what  Rita 
needed. 

Rita  was  late  in  arriving  home  from  the  office,  and  she 
hurried  directly  to  her  room  without  glancing  into  the 
living-room.  She  was  tired,  and  the  long  week  was  at  an 
end.  She  dallied  through  her  bath,  and  slipped  into  a 
cool  negligee,  thrust  her  feet  into  satin  mules.  When  she 
came  downstairs  she  hesitated  at  the  living-room  door.  She 
had  forgotten  about  Donald,  and  she  was  startled  at  the 
sight  of  a  strange  young  man  in  the  house. 

"  Oh,  Rita!  "  Her  mother  looked  up,  and  smiled. 
"  Here's  Donald." 

"  Donald?  "  Rita  held  out  her  hand  a  little  shyly. 
Strange  that  she  should  be  shy  before  this  boy  she  had 
known  for  so  long.  He  smiled  at  her  as  he  came  forward, 
a  tall,  slender  man,  with  the  same  fair  hair  and  clear  eyes 
that  Rita  had  liked  in  him  years  before.  "  I'm  glad  to  see 
you.  I — I'd  forgotten  that  you  were  coming  today.  I'm 
sorry  I'm  not  dressed." 


194  PROLOGUE 

"  It's  all  right.''  He  was  shy,  too,  but  Rita,  suddenly 
regaining  control  of  herself,  saw  that  he  found  her  very 
charming.  And  after  all,  the  white  negligee  was  becom- 
ing. .  . 

Lilias,  with  her  usual  somewhat  obvious  tact,  left  them 
together,  and  Rita  pulled  out  a  chair  for  Donald,  and  sat 
down  in  the  low  arm-chair  beside  the  window. 

"  Have  I  changed?  "  she  asked. 

"No — not  much.    Just  grown  older.    And — " 

Rita  smiled.  "  Oh,  and  prettier,  Donald.  One  must  say 
that." 

"  But  you  know  that,  don't  you?  " 

Perhaps  he  wasn't  quite  so  young  as  she  had  thought. 
He  was  smiling  at  her,  and  now  his  eyes  were  not  so  easy 
to  read  as  they  had  been  in  Boston.  "  Don't  know  that 
you  noticed  it,"  she  said. 

"I  did." 

They  looked  at  each  other  silently;  each  comparing  in 
their  minds  the  combination  of  memory,  pictures,  letters, 
and  perhaps  ideals.  They  were  glad  that  dinner  was  ready, 
and  that  they  could  continue  their  observations. 

Rita  suddenly  laughed,  as  the  maid  brought  in  coffee. 
She  looked  at  Donald,  and  he  laughed,  too.  Lilias  and 
Webster  Moreland  smiled  at  each  other  across  the  table. 

"  It's  awfully  nice — this  seeing  you  again,"  Rita  said. 
"  I'm  quite  excited  about  it,  Donald.  It's  like  meeting  an 
entirely  different  person,  and  yet — " 

"  And  yet  we've  got  all  our  old  memories,"  Donald  said. 

"  My  Lord,  you  kids  sound  sentimental,"  Lilias  said, 
laughing. 


PROLOGUE  195 

"  Sentimental?  "  Rita  looked  at  her  mother  humorously. 
4t  I  don't  believe  we  have  any  sentimental  memories.  We 
liked  each  other  when  we  were  kids,  but  when  I  was  young 
and  flapperish  and  in  a  perfect  age  for  beaux,  Donald 
didn't  like  me  a  bit." 

"  You  didn't  like  me,"  Donald  corrected  her. 

"  Well,  did  you  like  me?  "  Rita  leaned  forwaid  and 
lighted  a  cigarette  at  the  candle. 

"  What  do  you  think?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  again,  amused  and  delighted. 
Whatever  anticipations  Donald  had  had,  he  seemed  to  find 
Rita  attractive,  and  Rita  herself,  was  surprised  and  excited 
to  find  Donald  a  man,  a  person  not  awkward  or  self- 
conscious. 

"  How  did  you  get  so  grown-up,  Donald?  "  she  asked  him 
lightly. 

"  I'm  older  than  you  are." 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  a  boy.  Boys  are  always  slower  about 
things  than  girls." 

Donald  looked  at  her  a  moment,  smiling.  "  I'll  race  you," 
he  said. 

"  One  always  gives  girls  a  head  start,  don't  they?  " 
Rita  asked,  ungrammatically,  but  keeping  the  conversation 
impersonal. 

"  You  don't  get  one,"  said  Donald,  and  she  laughed  again. 
It  was  nice  to  feel  like  laughing.  She  had  had  no  idea 
that  it  would  be  such  fun  to  have  Donald  in  the  same  house. 

She  was  sorry  after  dinner  when  Lloyd  and  Fran  came  in. 
She  and  Lloyd  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  chattered  together, 
and  she  was  a  little  annoyed  that  Donald  found  Fran  so 


196  PROLOGUE 

attractive,  that  Fran's  laugh  rippled  out  as  often  as  her  own 
had  at  dinner.  She  wanted  to  listen  to  them,  but  she  shook 
off  the  idea  impatiently  and  turned  to  Lloyd. 

"  You  must  come  up  to  my  house  for  tea  tomorrow  after- 
noon and  bring  Mr.  Wells,"  Fran  said. 

"  I've  promised  to  go  to  Martha's,"  answered  Rita. 

"  What  are  two  teas  in  an  afternoon?  "  demanded  Lloyd, 
and  Rita  felt  impatient  with  him.  "  You'll  have  to  take 
Wells  to  both  of  'em,  Rita,  and  show  him  that  you're  a  true 
New  Yorker." 

"  Both,  by  all  means,"  Donald  said.  "  I  haven't  met 
Miss  Webb,  you  know,  Rita,  and  I  have  met  Miss  Wood- 
ward." 

Rita  wondered  irritably  whether  Donald  was  a  flirt. 

"  I  want  to  see  you,"  Lloyd  said  to  her.  "  So  come  to 
Fran's,  too.  You've  been  so  busy  lately,  and  so  stingy  with 
your  evenings  that  I  never  see  you." 

"  Only  about  four  times  a  week,"  Rita  said. 

"  Only  four,"  Lloyd  agreed.  "  And  there  are  seven  days 
and  at  least  five  meals  a  day  in  New  York  and  all  sorts  of 
hours  in  between." 

Rita  laughed.  "  Don't  tell  me  that  I'm  your  inspiration, 
Lloyd,"  she  mocked. 

"  All  right — I  won't  tell  you,"  he  agreed.  "  But  my 
novel's  going  nicely,  and  they  don't  show  any  signs  of  firing 
me  at  the  office." 

"  Fine.    I'm  awfully  glad.    Like  Donald?  " 

Lloyd  glanced  at  him  casually.  "  Looks  all  right  to  me. 
Do  you  like  him,  Rita?  " 

"  Oh — immensely,"  she  said,   watching  Lloyd.    It  was 


PROLOGUE  197 

curious  that  now  that  the  gods  had  given  her  Donald  to 
play  with,  Lloyd  seemed  to  be  hurling  himself  in  her  arms. 
When  she  went  to  her  room  that  night,  she  sat  down  at 
her  desk  and  picked  up  her  diary.  For  a  few  moments  she 
hesitated  over  it,  then  she  pushed  it  aside.  After  all,  a 
diary  is  to  complain  in,  a  place  where  things  are  put  upon 
paper  to  untangle  and  simplify  them.  She  was  too  happy, 
too  content,  to  need  that. 

Ill 

Rita  and  Donald  were  talking  in  the  converted  nursery. 
A  wood  fire  was  crackling  in  the  fire-place,  and  the  windows 
were  banked  with  snow.  They  had  drawn  the  couch  close 
to  the  fire;  the  tea-table  with  the  cups  and  samovar  was 
at  Rita's  right,  one  of  the  many  small  taborets  Rita  had 
purchased  was  at  Donald's  left. 

"  Gee,  I  like  this  room,  Rita!  " 

"  I  like  it  too."  It  seemed  smaller  than  when  it  had  been 
the  nursery;  the  maple  piano  that  her  father  had  given  her 
took  up  one  end;  in  the  gray  light  the  glass  lamps  and  the 
Roman  sash  that  trailed  across  it  shone.  The  long  red 
table  with  the  reading  lamp  was  piled  with  magazines  and 
newspapers;  in  fact  the  room  was  so  comfortable  that  Rita 
had  had  difficulty  in  preventing  her  mother  and  father  from 
forsaking  their  own  living-room  altogether. 

She  leaned  against  the  rounded  arm  of  the  couch,  and 
.watched  Donald  as  he  looked  about  appreciatively.  She 
enjoyed  the  long  talks  they  had  together  in  the  room, 
enjoyed  having  him  there  with  her. 


198  PROLOGUE 

"  You  like  New  York,  don't  you,  Don?  " 

"  Lord,  yes.  I've  been  spared  all  that  searching  you 
say  you  went  through — you  did  that  for  me,  Rita." 

"  Did  I?    I'm  glad." 

"  You've  done  a  lot  for  me,  you  know."  He  leaned  for- 
ward and  poked  the  fire  with  the  brass  tongs.  "  I  like 
your  friend  Ashley." 

"  I'm  glad.  It's  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  much  of 
him — I  guess  he  works  pretty  hard." 

"  He's  a  damned  interesting  chap — he  asked  me  out  to 
lunch  with  him,  and  I'm  going  to  like  going.  He's  a  college 
education  himself." 

Rita's  eyes  softened.  "You  wanted  to  keep  on  with 
college,  didn't  you,  Don?  " 

"  Yes — but  it  doesn't  matter.  I  like  newspaper  work,  and 
I'll  pick  up  the  things  I  want  eventually." 

Rita  sighed.  "  Life  is  so  funny,"  she  explained.  "  Here 
you  are,  wanting  college,  and  unable  to  have  it.  And  here 
I  am,  with  college  before  me  if  I  had  wanted  it — and  I 
don't." 

"  Oh,  well—" 

They  were  both  silent. 

"  I  don't  care  much  for  your  little  friend  Fran  Woodward," 
Donald  said  suddenly. 

"  Why  not?  "  Rita  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She's — I  don't  think  she's  so  awfully 
good  for  you,  Rita." 

"  Oh?  "  Rita's  voice  had  grown  icy,  but  Donald  did 
not  seem  to  notice. 

"  Perhaps  a  man  sort  of  gets  things.     She  seems  a  little — 


PROLOGUE  199 

cheap,  Rita.  You're  better  than  all  that — that  Sibley  man, 
and—" 

"  I  think  I  can  choose  my  own  friends,  Donald." 

"No  doubt.  But  you're  not  awfully  old,  Rita.  After 
all,  you're  only  eighteen,  and — " 

"  Oh,  my  God!  "  Rita  hurled  her  cigarette  into  the  fire- 
place impatiently.  "  Donald,  you  sound  just  like  an  old 
woman,  saying  '  My  dear,  after  you're  married  you'll  under- 
stand these  things  '!  " 

He  flushed  slightly,  but  went  on  quietly.  "  I  know  it's 
none  of  my  business — wish  it  was." 

"  My  friends  never  could  be  your  business,"  Rita  said 
coldly. 

"  Very  likely  not.  But — oh,  all  that  drinking  and  smok- 
ing and  flirting  and  talking  about  sex — "  He  stopped,  help- 
lessly. 

"  You  must  remember  that  you're  only  three  months 
away  from  Boston,"  Rita  said. 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind,  then.  It's  nothing  to  quarrel 
about.  It's  just  that  I  like  you,  Rita,  and — " 

"  Take  a  brotherly  interest  in  me." 

He  grinned.  "  What  would  you  do  if  I  didn't  contradict 
that,  Rita?  "  She  was  silent,  and  he  laughed  shortly.  "  Oh, 
well — you  win.  I  don't  and  you  know  it." 

"  What  sort  of  interest  do  you  take  in  me,  Donald?  " 
Rita  asked. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  laughing.  "  Oh, 
I  haven't  decided,"  he  said  lightly. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Rita  dear,"  he  said  quietly,  "  that  doesn't  work  with 


200  PROLOGUE 

me.  When  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  I  will.  And 
I  won't  until  then." 

Rita  got  up  angrily  and  walked  over  to  the  window.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  and  she  felt  like  a  small  girl  who  has 
been  naughty.  She  was  always  underestimating  Donald; 
it  was  hard  to  realize  that  although  he  was  young  and  even 
crude  at  times,  he  was  a  man.  Sometimes  he  seemed  older 
than  she — Rita  was  annoyed  at  that.  No  man  of  twenty- 
one  had  any  right  to  seem  older  than  she. 

He  had  come  over  to  her  quietly.  "  I'm  sorry,  Rita," 
he  said.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude." 

"  You  were,  though."  She  did  turn  to  look  at  him;  she 
was  angry  with  herself,  and  she  wanted  him  to  apolo- 
gize. 

"  I  know  I  was,'  .ie  said.  "  And  I'm  sorry.  Come  along 
back  and  fix  me  another  cup  of  tea  and  let's  talk.  I 
haven't  told  you  about  the  funny  story  I  was  sent  on  yes- 
terday." 

Still  Rita  did  not  turn;  she  knew  that  her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  and  she  was  ashamed. 

"  Coming,  Rita?  " 

"  Oh,  fix  your  own  tea!  "  she  said  impatiently.  "  You 
know  how!  " 

He  was  very  still  for  a  moment;  she  wanted  to  turn  and 
look  at  him,  but  she  knew  he  was  watching  her.  She  stared 
steadily  out  at  the  snow.  Suddenly  she  was  jerked  about, 
and  she  felt  his  hand  under  her  chin.  She  looked  at  him 
angrily;  he  was  laughing.  She  started  to  speak,  and  his 
mouth  pressed  down  on  hers  firmly.  He  laughed  as  he 
released  her,  and  held  the  hands  that  had  struck  out  at 


PROLOGUE  201 

him.  Then  he  turned  quietly  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 
Rita  stood  quite  still,  listening  to  his  footsteps  on  the 
stairs.  He  had  gone  into  his  room,  she  decided.  She  stood, 
round-eyed,  for  several  minutes,  listening. 


IV 

New  Year's  Eve  of  Nineteen-seventeen,  and  Rita  herself 
was  giving  a  party.  She  stood  at  the  door  of  her  living- 
room  on  the  top  floor  of  the  Moreland  house,  looking  at 
the  people.  It  was  the  first  time  that  the  two  crowds  had 
ever  been  so  closely  mixed;  a  tea  naturally  divides  itself 
into  groups.  Martha  Webb,  in  an  old-fashioned  costume, 
was  talking  to  Lloyd  Evans;  Fran  and  John  Cook  seemed 
to  be  getting  along  remarkably  well;  Donald  was  talking 
with  Helen  Marvin.  Rita's  eyes  rested  on  him  for  a 
moment;  she  liked  him  in  his  funny  Pierrot  costume,  with 
his  cap  slipping  from  the  side  of  his  blond  head.  The  long 
table  was  cleared  of  magazines,  and  spread  with  sandwiches 
and  hors-d'ceuvre  that  her  mother  had  planned;  her  father 
sat  at  the  piano,  playing  with  one  finger  a  tune  to  Lucy 
O'Day,  who  was  leaning  over,  listening. 

David  Ashley,  in  an  immense  and  baggy  costume  that  he 
might  have  made  himself,  came  up  to  her.  "  Like  your 
party,  Rita?  " 

"  Yes,  do  you?  " 

"  Immensely.  You  make  me  feel  twenty  years  younger, 
Rita — you  were  a  dear  to  invite  an  old  codger  like  me." 

"  Silly."  She  leaned  towards  him  to  kiss  him,  and  was 
surprised  at  the  blush  that  crept  up  to  his  gray  hair. 


202  PROLOGUE 

"  That  Donald  Wells  is  a  nice  boy,  Rita." 

Rita  laughed.  "  Matchmaker!  "  she  accused  him.  "  Yes, 
Don's  a  dear.  We  like  each  other,  and  we  fight  all  the 
time  like  cats  and  dogs." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that." 

"Why?" 

He  smiled.  "  Because  then  I  know  that  Donald  doesn't 
let  you  have  your  own  way — which  is  quite  apt  to  be  wrong, 
my  dear." 

Rita  pouted.     "  What  time  is  it?  "  she  asked. 

From  the  folds  of  his  costume  David  Ashley's  hand  found 
the  pocket  of  his  suit  underneath  and  he  pulled  out  his 
watch.  "  Quarter-past  eleven." 

"  Well  have  to  go  to  the  hall  pretty  soon.  Make  them 
keep  still,  David." 

"  All  right — if  I  can."  He  turned  from  her,  smiling, 
and  climbed  on  one  of  the  taborets.  "  Silence!  Silence! 
SILENCE!  Rita  wants  to  speak!  " 

Rita  laughed,  as  the  conversation  and  laughter  reluctantly 
died  away.  "  It's  quarter-past  eleven,"  she  said,  mounting 
the  table  that  Ashley  surrendered  to  her.  "  The  taxis  will 
be  here  at  about  half-past.  If  you  want  anything  more 
to  eat  before  you  go,  eat  now." 

There  was  a  loud  cheer,  and  much  scrambling  about  the 
table.  Lloyd  came  up  to  her,  but  Rita  pushed  him  away 
"  I'm  being  a  hostess,"  she  said.  "  Run  over  and  talk  to 
Lucy — Father  seems  to  have  deserted  her." 

He  went  reluctantly,  and  Rita  walked  about  the  room, 
smiling  with  pleasure  and  contentment.  Finally,  satisfied, 
she  hurried  down  the  stairs  to  her  room,  to  fix  her  tangled 


PROLOGUE  203 

hair  before  they  left  the  house.  She  heard  voices  in  Don- 
ald's room,  and  hesitated  unconsciously. 

"  I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way  about  her,"  David  Ash- 
ley's voice  said.  "  She's  a  nice  girl,  Donald.  And  she  needs 
you,  you  know." 

"  Needs  me?  "    It  was  Donald's  voice. 

Rita  stood  perfectly  still. 

"  I've  been  afraid  for  her.  She's  headstrong  and — she's 
got  so  much  both  of  her  mother  and  her  father  in  her, 
Donald.  And  she's  playing  with  some  pretty  dangerous 
people — she's  had  some  pretty  rough  experiences.  And 
now  there's  Evans." 

Rita's  breath  seemed  to  stop  in  her  throat;  she  wanted  to 
go  on,  but  she  could  not.  It  was  horrid  to  eavesdrop.  But — 

"  Do  you  think  she  cares  for  him?  "  Donald  asked. 

"  No.  I  don't  think  he  really  cares  for  her — but  he 
thinks  he  does,  and  that's  as  bad.  Oh,  he's  all  right,  of 
course — but  if  Rita  wasn't  as  level-headed  as  she  is — " 

Rita  suddenly  gained  control  of  her  muscles.  She  tip- 
toed hurriedly  into  her  room,  and  stood,  panting,  after  she 
had  closed  the  door.  So  David  Ashley  was  giving  Donald 
good  advice  about  her!  She  felt  suddenly  that  she  hated 
them  both.  If  he  told  Donald  about  Sibley — but  he 
wouldn't  do  that.  Her  cheeks  were  flaming  as  she  sat  down 
before  her  mirror  and  combed  her  hair.  It  was  rather  a 
consolation  to  see  that  she  looked  pretty;  she  half  forgot 
them  in  looking  at  her  reflection.  The  impressionistic  cos- 
tume that  Lucy  O'Day  had  designed  and  that  her  mother 
and  the  dress-maker  had  carried  out,  was  charming.  The 
material  was  of  green  and  white  squares,  each  square  about 


204  PROLOGUE 

three  inches  across.  The  bodice  was  straight  across  her  breast, 
and  the  full  skirt  fell  a  few  inches  below  her  knees.  Long 
white  satin  trousers  were  gathered  tightly  about  her  ankles 
with  black  ribbons;  her  slippers  were  of  black  satin  with 
green  heels.  Her  shoulders  were  bare,  except  for  the  straps 
of  narrow  black  ribbon,  and  her  hands  were  covered  with 
short  black  silk  gloves. 

She  stared  at  herself  in  the  mirror  for  a  minute;  then 
she  got  up  abruptly  and  hurried  up  the  stairs. 

"  Most  time  to  leave,  isn't  it?  "  Donald  asked  her,  smiling. 

"  Is  it?  "  Rita  looked  up  at  him  quietly,  and  he  did  not 
understand  the  expression  in  her  green  eyes,  although  he 
noticed  it.  "  Where's  Lloyd?  "  . 

"  Over  there  with  Fran."  He  watched  her  while  she  ran 
across  the  room  and  sat  down  beside  him.  For  a  moment 
he  wondered  if  she  knew  that  he  and  Ashley  had  been  dis- 
cussing her;  she  had  been  downstairs.  But  he  put  the 
thought  out  of  his  mind. 

The  New  Year's  dance  was  in  the  ball-room  of  a  hotel, 
and  Rita  caught  her  breath  as  they  came  in.  Pastel-shaded 
balloons  had  been  fastened  in  bunches  near  the  chiffon 
ceiling;  tropical  vines  bearing  exotic  brilliant  fruit  and 
wide-petaled  flowers  dripped  from  the  chandeliers,  and 
from  wires  strung  across  the  room.  From  the  center  of 
the  ceiling,  two  brown  papier-mache  monkeys  hung  by 
their  tails.  And  the  room  was  crowded,  packed,  with  cos- 
tumed dancers. 

"  Get  our  table,  Father,"  Rita  whispered  to  Webster 
Moreland.  "And  champagne — it's  almost  twelve." 

They  were  finally  collected;   the  dancers  were  whirling 


PROLOGUE  205 

about  the  room,  still  a  mass  of  color  and  confusion  to  the 
newcomers,  when  the  music  stopped  abruptly. 

Mid-night. 

Nineteen-se  venteen . 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence ;  then  dancers  began  scam- 
pering back  to  tables,  cries  of  "  Nineteen-seventeen!  "  shook 
the  hall. 

"  Nineteen-seventeen!  "  Webster  Moreland  rose  and 
held  up  his  glass.  Rita  stood,  round-eyed,  her  lips  parted. 
Across  the  table  Donald  was  smiling  at  her.  Lloyd,  at 
her  right,  made  a  movement  towards  her,  but  Donald  was 
quicker.  He  leaned  across  the  table,  regardless  of  the 
champagne  bottle  that  tipped  over  and  drenched  the  cloth, 
and  kissed  Rita. 

"  First  kiss  of  Nineteen-seventeen,  Miss  Moreland,"  he 
said  triumphantly.  "  And  you  were  so  surprised  that  you 
kissed  me  back.  So  there!  " 

Rita  stood  staring  at  him,  still  smiling.  Then  Lloyd 
seized  her,  and  John  Cook  pulled  her  from  Lloyd  to  bear 
her  out  on  the  floor  triumphantly  for  a  dance. 


After  New  Year's,  the  winter  seemed  to  slip  away.  It  had 
been  the  happiest  winter  of  Rita's  life;  Donald  had  combined 
the  two  crowds  for  her ;  because  he  had  liked  people  in  each 
crowd  she  had  been  able  to  share  alike  with  them.  She 
had  definitely  made  good  with  her  work,  and  when  a  rival 
concern  offered  her  a  position,  Jim  had  urged  her  to  accept  it. 

"  After  all,  Rita,"  he  had  said,  "  there's  not  such  a  ter- 


206  PROLOGUE 

rible  lot  of  room  for  growth  here.  I'm  just  starting  in  and 
you'll  always  be  hampered  by  that.  You  ought  to  go  with 
the  Blake  crowd." 

And  Rita,  reluctantly  and  eagerly,  had  gone  to  the  new 
concern,  where  she  had  an  office  of  her  own  and  almost 
double  the  salary  she  had  had  with  Jim. 

The  spring  bore  upon  them,  a  spring  whose  gladness  was 
tempered  by  constant  rumors  of  war.  Rita  could  not  pick 
up  a  newspaper  without  hearing  again  her  mother's  words 
of  the  summer  before —  "  I  suppose  Donald  Wells  will 
go."  The  war  was  brought  nearer  to  her  by  that,  and  she 
fought  against  it  in  her  mind — and  fought  for  it  when  she 
was  confronted  by  the  pacifists  at  Martha's.  The  group 
had  grown  solemn.  Rita  found  herself  avoiding  them  and 
seeking  Fran's  where  the  conversation  rarely  climbed  to 
serious  subjects.  Donald  seemed  to  have  grown  away  from 
her  a  little — and  at  the  same  time  to  have  grown  nearer. 
He  went  alone  to  Martha's  and  to  Peg's — the  new  baby,  a 
small  girl,  had  arrived,  and  held  court  in  the  large  front 
living-room  of  the  Washington  Square  apartment.  Rita  was 
thrown  more  and  more  into  association  with  Lloyd — it  was 
for  her  a  kind  of  relief  from  the  pleasure  of  being  with 
Donald,  pleasure  that  was  marred  by  the  sight  of  a  news- 
paper or  a  toy-soldier,  by  any  suggestion  of  war. 

March  and  its  winds  passed,  and  each  day  made  the  situa- 
tion more  tense,  more  unbearable.  On  April  fifth,  Rita  had 
gone  to  dinner  with  Lloyd,  and  afterwards  to  the  theater. 
The  next  day  at  the  office  was  interrupted  by  the  long-ex- 
pected declaration.  Rita  sat  in  her  living-room  waiting  for 


PROLOGUE  207 

Donald,  and  wherever  she  looked,  whatever  she  thought  of, 
the  words  streamed  before  her — United  States  Declares  War 
on  Germany.  Rita  was  staring  ahead  of  her  at  the  empty 
fireplace,  when  she  heard  Donald's  steps  on  the  stairs.  She 
ran  forward  and  held  up  her  face  to  him.  Now  that  he  had 
come,  the  tears  began  streaming  from  her  eyes;  her  breath 
caught  in  her  throat  and  turned  into  sobs. 

4i  Rita  darling!  "  He  was  grave  and  gay  and  gentle  all 
at  once.  He  kissed  her,  and  Rita  clung  to  him,  her  face  still 
lifted  to  his. 

"  Donald!  " 

They  stood  at  the  door  for  several  minutes,  and  finally  he 
picked  her  up  and  carried  her  to  the  couch,  put  her  down 
gently. 

"  Don't,  Rita  darling." 

"  I— can't  help  it.    Kiss  me,  Donald." 

She  clung  to  him,  trying  not  to  think,  trying  only  to  be 
happy  because  he  loved  her. 

She  wanted  to  persuade  herself  that  that  was  all  that 
mattered.  And  she  could  not. 

"  Rita,  you've  got  to  stop.  Please,  Rita."  She  huddled 
into  an  uncomfortable,  frightened  bunch  at  the  corner  of 
the  couch. 

He  talked  to  her,  gently,  quietly,  but  she  did  not  listen; 
not  a  word  of  what  he  said  made  the  slightest  impression  on 
her. 

"  Rita,  listen.  I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to  marry  me — 
I  don't  want  you  to  consider  yourself  in  any  way  bound  to 
me.  Are  you  listening,  Rita?  " 

She  was  crying  again,  and  he  finally  gave  it  up,  and  sat 


208  PROLOGUE 

close  to  her,  pulled  her  head  down  on  his  shoulder.  She 
went  to  sleep  finally,  like  a  small  girl,  and  he  carried  her 
down  and  put  her  on  the  bed  in  her  own  room. 

In  the  morning  when  she  appeared  at  breakfast,  he  smiled 
at  her  cheerfully. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  work  today,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are!  "  Donald  interrupted,  before  either 
her  mother  or  father  could  speak.  "  Yes,  you  are,  Rita. 
This  is  no  time  to  be  failing  in  things,  you  know." 

Rita  looked  at  him  dully.    "  All  right,"  she  said. 

Donald  came  home  that  night  with  his  enlistment  papers 
in  his  pocket.  Rita  could  see  that  he  was  excited,  gay 
even.  She  knew  that  he  wanted  to  suggest  a  party,  and 
did  not  dare.  If  he  was  going,  she  did  not  want  him  to 
think  of  her  as  a  tear-stained,  cowardly  person.  She  smiled 
and  kissed  him  quite  gaily. 

"  Let's  go  and  dance  tonight,"  she  said. 

After  that  she  was  unusually  gay;  the  realization  that 
Donald  actually  wanted  to  go  appalled  her;  it  was  beyond 
her  comprehension.  But  she  was  too  tired,  too  exhausted, 
to  talk  with  him,  to  try  to  understand.  She  accepted  it, 
as  she  accepted  everything  else. 

The  time  of  his  going  grew  nearer.  One  day  in  the 
living-room  where  they  sat,  evening  after  evening,  talking, 
she  broke  down  again. 

"  Marry  me  before  you  go,  Donald,"  she  pleaded. 
"  Please.  I'm  afraid.  I—" 

"  Rita,  you  must  listen,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't  asked  you 
to  marry  me — I  shan't.  You're  not  to  feel  in  any  way 
bound — you  mustn't  do  that.  We're  both  excited;  this  isn't 


PROLOGUE  209 

a  normal  situation.  You  may  not  love  me  as  much  as 
you  think  you  do.  It's  impossible  for  you  to  know, 
yet." 

Rita  looked  up  at  him  dully.  "  Please,  Donald,"  she 
begged.  "  I'm  so  afraid — I'm — please  let's  be  married." 

"  Rita,  what  are  you  afraid  of?  "  he  asked,  looking  at  her 
gravely.  Rita  hung  her  head  and  was  silent.  "  You're 
afraid  that  you  may  love  someone  else,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that!  "  she  said.  "  But  I  want  to  make 
sure  of  you — I  want  to  feel  safe." 

"  You're  not  afraid  that  I'll  love  someone  else?  "  He 
laughed  at  the  idea,  and  she  laughed,  too. 

"  No,  not  that,  Donald.  But — oh,  I  don't  want  you  to 
leave  me  like  this.  If  only  you'd  make  me  promise — if 
only—" 

"  But  that's  what  I  won't  do,  dearest.  You're  in  no 
earthly  way  bound  to  me.  You  must  understand  that, 
Rita." 

She  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"  You're  an  extremely  forward  young  woman,"  he  said 
lightly.  "  What  makes  you  think  that  I  want  to  marry 
you?  Have  I  ever  led  you  to  believe  such  things?  " 

"  Don't— joke,  Donald,"  she  begged.    "  I  can't  bear  it." 

Finally  the  day  came  when  Donald  was  to  go.  Rita 
wondered  what  it  was  that  women  were  supposed  to  find 
attractive  about  uniforms.  Donald  looked  handsome,  of 
course — better  than  she  had  ever  seen  him,  in  his  private's 
khaki.  But  she  would  have  given  up  all  the  khaki  in  the 
world  to  see  him  back  in  the  gray  tweed  suit  he  used  to 
wear.  It  had  been  a  painfully  long  time,  waiting  for  him  to 


2io  PROLOGUE 

sail,  and  there  was  almost  relief  in  her  crying,  after  he  had 
gone. 

It  was  over  now.  There  couldn't  be  any  more  of  it  to 
torture  her.  The  day  after  he  left,  she  worked  desperately 
at  the  office,  and  managed  to  turn  out  exceptionally  good 
work.  She  was  getting  ready  to  leave,  when  the  telephone 
rang.  It  was  Fran,  asking  her  to  dinner  and  to  a  dance. 

"  Oh,  yes — yes!  "    Rita  had  said  eagerly. 

She  went  home  and  dressed  feverishly,  flung  down  the 
first  evening  gown  she  had  put  on,  because  it  did  not  suit 
her.  Lilias  had  never  seen  her  so  impatient,  so  difficult 
to  please.  It  took  her  almost  an  hour  to  arrange  her  hair 
properly.  She  fussed  and  scolded  like  a  debutante  going 
to  her  first  dance.  As  she  leaned  towards  the  mirror  for  a 
last  glance  at  her  reflection,  her  eyes  caught  on  the  picture  of 
Donald  that  hung  beside  it.  She  stared  at  it  for  a  moment, 
while  Lilias  watched  her,  half-frightened.  Then  she 
laughed. 

"  Funny  to  think  of  Donald  going  to  war  and  me  going 
to  a  dance,  isn't  it?  "  she  asked.  "  Funny!  Funny!  " 

Lilias  stood  looking  after  her,  as  she  ran  down  the  stairs, 
and  out  to  the  waiting  taxi. 


Part  Three 

CHAPTER    ONE 

I 

June  1 6th,  1917. 

IT'S  hot  tonight.  Fran  is  at  rehearsal  still,  and  I'm 
sitting  here  in  a  negligee,  with  a  bottle  of  ginger-ale  on  the 
desk  beside  me,  trying  to  find  out  why  I'm  so  frightened  at 
life.  I've  never  been  timid  before — curious,  interested, 
irritated,  perhaps  even  shocked,  but  never  frightened  before. 
I  think  I've  been  afraid  ever  since  Donald  left.  When 
Mother  and  Father  went  to  Larchborough  and  Fran  asked 
me  to  stay  with  her,  I  was  afraid.  I  wouldn't  have  been  so 
afraid  to  stay  alone  in  the  house,  alone  with  the  things  I'm 
used  to.  But  here —  I  didn't  want  to  come  to  Fran's,  but 
then  she  said  that  she  needed  me,  that  she,  too,  was  afraid 
to  stay  alone.  It  seems  strange  that  two  such  self-possessed 
people  as  Fran  and  I  should  be  frightened.  I  didn't  want  to 
come  here  partly,  I  think,  because  Donald  disliked  Fran. 
And  because  deep  down  in  my  heart,  I  disapprove,  too,  of 
the  things  he  dislikes,  and  because  my  disapproval  is  not 
stronger  than  my  love  of  them — my  love  of  excitement  and 
pleasure.  And  I  was  afraid  to  stay  alone  for  fear  the 
temptation  of  playing,  of  useless  things,  would  be  quite  as 
strong  there  as  here  at  Fran's. 

211 


212  PROLOGUE 

I'm  ashamed  that  while  Donald  is  fighting  for  something 
really  decent,  I'm  playing  and  wasting  time.  And  I  can't 
help  it. 

Donald  isn't  a  person  to  me  any  more — I've  lost  the  little 
boy  I  used  to  play  with  in  Boston;  I've  lost  the  man  I 
loved — or  thought  I  loved — here  in  New  York.  I  never  let 
Donald  know  me  as  I  really  am — I  tried  to  be  for  him  what 
he  wanted  me  to  be.  And  because  he  doesn't  know  me,  I 
don't  know  him.  He's  just  an  ideal  for  me,  of  the  good 
things — the  other  things  in  life.  Peg's  crowd  and  a  sort 
of  altruism.  And  that  bores  me.  But  Donald  didn't  bore 
me — perhaps  because  I  was  half  in  love  with  him,  because 
he  was  attractive  to  me. 

I'm  glad  now  that  he  didn't  make  me  promise  to  marry 
him;  I'm  glad — oh,  more  relieved  than  I  can  put  into  words 
— that  we  weren't  married.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
Donald  really;  I  can't  know  anything  about  anyone  until  I 
know  more  about  myself. 

I  wonder  what  Rita  Moreland  is  like — what  people  think 
of  her.  I'm  pretty — I'm  almost  nineteen  years  old.  I'm 
making  good  at  my  work,  but  I'm  not  frightfully  interested 
in  it.  Sometimes — when  I'm  with  Fran's  crowd — I'm 
radical,  fairly  intelligent.  But  when  I'm  with  Peg  or 
Martha  I'm  flippant,  frivolous.  Why  can't  people  who  have 
brains  powder  their  noses  and  clean  their  finger-nails?  I'm 
.small,  I'm  afraid. 

It's  hot  and  the  trees  in  the  park  are  drooping  with  it; 
I'd  like  to  go  out  and  walk  there  and  look  up  at  the  stars. 
And  then  I'd  like  to  sit  down  on  one  of  the  benches  and 
breathe  in  the  hot  air  and  have  someone  hold  my  hands — 


PROLOGUE  213 

all  warm  and  content.  Donald?  Lloyd?  I  don't  much 
care.  It's  the  weather  for  love,  and  I'm  the  age  for  it. 
And  it  isn't  Donald's  sort  of  love  that  I  want,  a  love  that  is 
serious  and  clear-eyed,  a  love  that  looks  toward  the  future 
and  the  good  of  the  world  and  the  big  things  of  life.  I'm 
bored — utterly  bored — with  the  "  big  things  of  life  ".  I 
want  the  little  things,  the  little  nestling  pleasant  things — a 
love  that's  gentle  and — oh,  enfolding,  like  the  Larchborough 
lake — warm  and  soft,  unthinking.  I've  been  reading  poetry 
— Lord,  I've  even  been  writing  it.  I  want  someone  to  send 
me  a  single  white  rose — or,  no,  a  red  one.  Perhaps  even 
red  is  too  vital,  just  as  white  is  too  pure.  A  blue  rose — be- 
cause blue  roses  are  strange  and  rare  and  dreamy  and 
exotic.  I  can't  think — and  so  I  don't  want  to.  I  want 
merely  to  feel — and  to  feel  something  besides  boredom. 

"  Gone  with  the  wind — flung  roses,  roses  riotously  with 
the  throng  " — no,  even  that  has  too  much  energy.  I  don't 
want  to  do  anything  riotously. 

Sara  Teasdale's  poem  about  Central  Park — and  the  fair- 
ies— the  park  looks  like  that  tonight.  And  yet  even  that 
had  a  grain  of  sincerity  lurking  somewhere.  I  want  play — 
but  gentle  play.  I  have  a  sneaking  suspicion  that  I'm 
either  funny  or  pathetic;  I  don't  know  which.  Why,  when 
I'm  feeling  languid  and  poetic  and  lonely,  must  there  always 
be  an  active,  quick-minded,  red-headed  little  Rita  Moreland 
somewhere,  who  watches  me  and  grins  and  laughs?  Oh, 
perhaps  I  am  funny — I  don't  care.  I'm  bored,  and  I  won't 
be  bored  any  longer. 

I  won't — won't — I  won't! 


2i4  PROLOGUE 


II 

"  Do  you  ever  wonder  what  we're  for,  Fran?  I  mean 
what  life  is  about,  anyway?  "  Rita  was  sitting  cross-legged 
on  the  couch,  surrounded  by  books  and  magazines. 

Fran  looked  up  from  her  darning  and  smiled.  "  Heavens, 
Rita!  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  it's  awfully  young  and  all  that.  But,  Fran, 
we  are  young.  And  I  do  wonder." 

Fran  put  her  work  aside,  and  rocked  gently  for  a  moment. 
"  We  used  to  talk  a  lot  about  life  in  school,  didn't  we?  " 
she  said.  "  We  don't  talk  any  more.  I  think  it's  because 
we're  ashamed  to  be  serious.  I  don't  know.  You're  all  at 
loose  ends  now,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes.    Aren't  you?  " 

"  More  or  less.  After  I  got  out  of  school  and  got  to  New 
York,  I  had  a  bunch  of  hard  knocks.  It's  not  having  any 
home  that  makes  life  hard  for  a  girl,  I  think.  And  you  and 
I  haven't  had  any  real  homes.  Dad,  of  course,  is  impos- 
sible. We've  had  to  work  things  out  quite  by  ourselves, 
you  and  I — women  don't  help  each  other  much,  do  they, 
Rita?" 

Rita  hesitated.  "  I  think  it's  because  they  don't  know 
how,  Fran.  We  always  get  embarrassed  and  confused 
when  we  try  to  talk.  We're  so  inarticulate.  I  want  to  ask 
questions  right  now — of  you,  because  you're  older  than  I; 
of  Peg  and  Martha  and  Lucy.  But  I  don't  quite  know  what 
the  questions  are.  It's  just — life." 

"  You're  lonely,  Rita." 


PROLOGUE  215 

"Terribly.    But  I  don't  know  what  I  miss.    Donald.  .  ." 

"  Do  you  love  Donald?  " 

"  How  do  I  know,  Fran?  Sometimes  I  think  I  do.  I 
miss  him,  and  it  almost  kills  me  to  think  of  him  over  there. 
But  then  I  find  myself  wanting  to  flirt  with  other  people, 
and—" 

"  That  doesn't  mean  anything,"  Fran  said.  "  I  think  that 
when  you  love  someone  you — you  want  to  love  everyone. 
You're  so  full  of  love,  so —  It  is  hard  to  talk  about  it, 
Rita." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  love,  Fran?  " 

Fran  laughed.  "  I  don't  know.  I — I  thought  I  was 
once.  But — I  guess  he  didn't  care  for  me.  I — oh,  Rita!  " 

They  smiled;  Fran  picked  up  her  darning  again,  but 
Rita  sat  quietly,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Fran  couldn't 
help  her;  she  would  have  to  find  things  out  for  herself. 
Life  seemed  an  aimless  thing;  it  was  as  though  everyone 
else  knew  what  he  wanted  and  how  to  get  it.  But  for 
her.  .  .  .  Her  work  had  interested  her;  it  was  interesting 
still.  But  it  was  disconnected  from  reality;  it  was  a  mere 
playing  with  words  and  pictures  and  ideas.  She  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  herself  in  the  evenings;  Saturday 
afternoons  and  Sundays  were  long,  dragging  hours,  in  which 
she  read  or  sewed  or  talked  with  people.  Talking  with 
people  had  lost  its  interest;  she  was  primarily  interested 
in  Rita  Moreland,  but  she  was  not  enough  of  an  egoist  to 
let  other  people  know  that.  Life  and  Rita  Moreland — the 
two,  closely  woven,  inextricable.  She  wished  passionately 
that  she  could  become  enthusiastic  about  something — any- 
thing. If  only  she  wanted  to  do  something;  social  work 


216  PROLOGUE 

for  the  poor,  educating  the  heathen — anything  at  all.  She 
was  interested  in  woman  suffrage — but  the  idea  of  giving  her 
time  to  it,  of  thinking  it,  talking  it,  living  it,  as  women  she 
had  met  were  doing,  bored  her  unspeakably. 

It  would  have  to  be  something  more  human  than  any- 
thing she  had  known  to  hold  her  interest.  Love — she  knew, 
deep  down  in  her  heart,  that  it  was  love  she  wanted.  She 
was  not  in  the  knight-in-armor  period  of  her  life;  she  did 
not  want — had  never  wanted — to  collect  photographs  of  a 
stage  favorite,  or  autographs  of  a  moving-picture  hero.  She 
wanted  reality — a  man  who  interested  her,  who  could  open 
life  before  her.  She  hated  to  admit  that  her  happiness,  her 
contentment,  rested  solely  in  the  hands  of  some  man.  It 
was  unfeministic,  absurd.  But  it  was  true.  She  wanted 
to  share  life  with  someone;  things  would  not  be  so  futile, 
so  useless,  if  there  was  someone  with  whom  to  talk  about 
them,  someone  who  was  interested. 

She  envied  Donald,  envied  all  men,  because  they  could 
enjoy  life  alone.  They  could  have  their  adventure  with- 
out companionship;  they  could  enjoy  beauty  in  solitude 
without  feeling  the  lack  of  someone  to  delight  with  them. 
Women  were  not  free.  Rita  was  independent;  there  was  no 
one  to  set  down  rules  for  her  life.  But  she  was  lonely  in 
her  independence;  life  was  incomplete,  unsatisfying. 

She  sighed,  and  Fran  smiled  encouragingly. 

"  Shall  we  go  out  to  dinner  tonight?  "  she  asked. 

"  Out  to  dinner?  "  Rita  repeated.  "  Oh."  She  looked  at 
Fran  wistfully  for  a  moment.  "  Oh,  what  does  it  matter? 
What  does  it  matter?  "  she  asked. 


PROLOGUE  217 


III 

July  26th,  1917. 
DEAR  ROY: 

I'm  nineteen  years  old  today,  and  I'm  thinking  of  you. 
It's  three  whole  years  since  I've  really  seen  you,  except  for 
the  stingy  little  time  we  had  together  last  summer  when 
you  motored  through. 

I  wish  you  lived  in  New  York — we'd  have  such  fun 
together.  Don't  you  ever  come  on  for  business? 

I'm  working  hard,  of  course,  but  I'm  damnably  lonely — 
New  York  can  be  a  lonely  city,  too.  I  suppose  any  place 
can. 

I  can't  write  a  decent  letter;  I — 

Rita  pushed  the  letter  paper  away  from  her  and  scowled 
at  it.  Fran  was  lying  on  the  couch,  reading  the  Sunday 
newspapers;  the  windows  were  open  wide,  and  the  air  that 
drifted  in  was  sticky  and  dust-laden.  The  white  roses  in 
the  bowl  on  the  center  of  the  table  were  brown  with  wilt; 
as  Rita  looked  at  them,  a  crumpled  petal  fluttered  to  the 
floor. 

She  read  again  what  she  had  written,  and  tore  the  paper 
into  small  pieces.  "Idiot!  "  she  said. 

"  Huh?  "  Fran  smiled  drowsily,  and  stretched  out  her 
arms.  "  Doesn't  go?  " 

"It  does  not!  "  Rita  answered.  "Fran,  I'm  an  awful 
fool." 

"  Oh,  yes."    Fran  turned  the  pages  of  the  supplement 


218  PROLOGUE 

languidly;  the  very  newspaper  was  so  hot  that  it  did  not 
crackle  as  she  folded  it. 

Rita  got  up  and  walked  across  the  room  aimlessly.  Her 
hair  hung  in  a  long  braid  over  her  negligee;  her  forehead 
was  hot. 

"  Let's  get  out  of  New  York  for  a  time,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. 

"Where?    How?" 

Rita  pulled  the  faded  flowers  from  the  bowl  and  tossed 
them  impatiently  into  the  waste-basket.  "  Oh — I  can  get 
a  vacation.  You  aren't  busy  now — you  can  get  away. 
Let's  go  down  on  Long  Island  somewhere,  where  there's 
swimming/' 

"  Just  us?  " 

"No,  let's  get  someone — I  don't  care  who — for  a  chap- 
eron. And  take  Lloyd." 

Fran  laughed.  "  Who'll  be  a  halfway  decent  chaperon?  " 
she  asked. 

Rita  stood  by  the  window.  "  I  don't  want  Peg  and 
Jim — the  baby's  such  a  bore.  And — do  you  know  the 
Burtons?  " 

"  Ralph  Burton?  " 

"  Yes,  the  painter.  His  wife  is  quite  a  dear,  too — I'm 
going  to  telephone  them." 

"  Where'll  we  go?  " 

"  Oh,  Fran—"  Rita  looked  at  her  helplessly.  "  Don't 
be  so  annoying.  We'll  get  a  place."  She  sat  down  at  the 
table,  and  pulled  the  telephone  from  beneath  the  dejected 
ruffled  skirts  of  the  Marie- Antoinette  doll. 

That  was  Sunday  morning;  on  Tuesday  afternoon  they 


PROLOGUE  219 

were  waiting  together  in  the  Pennsylvania  Station,  the 
Burtons,  Phil  Burton,  a  younger  brother,  Lloyd,  Fran,  and 
Rita.  Annette  Burton  had  snatched  eagerly  at  an  oppor- 
tunity for  going  to  the  country;  Ralph,  she  said,  was  working 
too  hard  and  needed  the  sea,  and  to  crown  it  all,  they  had 
recently  bought  a  ramshackle  farmhouse  on  Long  Island, 
four  hours  from  New  York,  that  needed  painting  and  patch- 
ing up.  They  had  planned  to  do  it  themselves,  but  Rita 
and  Fran  entered  enthusiastically  into  the  idea  of  helping. 

The  farmhouse  was  a  long  walk  from  the  station,  and  they 
trudged  along  wearily,  the  three  men  carrying  bundles  of 
blankets  and  provisions,  the  three  women  with  suitcases 
and  packages. 

"  We  look  exactly  like  an  immigrant  family,"  Annette 
said,  laughing.  "  But  never  mind." 

When  she  swung  open  the  gate  at  the  foot  of  the  path, 
they  dropped  their  bundles  and  sat  down  exhaustedly  on 
the  grass.  The  house  itself  was  little  more  than  a  shell; 
it  had  not  been  occupied  for  many  years.  But  the  heavy 
timber  that  had  been  laid  in  place  more  than  a  hundred 
years  before  had  borne  the  storms  valiantly,  and  grown  to  a 
rich,  weathered  gray.  The  yard  was  a  tangle  of  grass  and 
wild  flowers;  near  the  house  ancient  rose  bushes  were  blos- 
soming, and  shooting  forth  long,  scraggly  branches. 

"  We  got  the  place  for  a  song,"  said  Ralph  Burton.  "  Of 
course  it  needs  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  repairs. 
It—" 

"  No  heat,  no  light,  no  plumbing — except  a  sink  with  a 
pump.  No  nothing.  We  sent  down  a  bunch  of  furniture 
that  was  overflowing  our  New  York  place — one  reason  we 


220  PROLOGUE 

bought  the  house — it's  cheaper  than  storage,"  Annette  inter- 
rupted. 

"  Our  land  goes  down  to  the  water,"  her  husband  con- 
tinued. "  The  deed  was  rather  amusing — we  had  to  promise 
to  allow  the  descendants  of  the  old  Dillingham  family  who 
built  the  place,  to  unload  any  cargo  on  our  beach,  and  carry 
it  across  our  land." 

"  And  there's  an  old  graveyard  of  dead  sea-cap'ns,"  con- 
cluded Annette.  "  Let's  go  inside." 

It  was  a  typical  farmhouse  of  the  century  before;  the 
rooms  were  small  and  low  ceilinged,  with  many-paned 
windows;  there  were  unexpected  steps  and  passages  and 
closets  everywhere. 

"  Look  at  this  room,"  Ralph  Burton  said.  "  There  are 
nine  doors  to  it,  counting  the  brick  oven!  " 

They  chose  their  rooms  and  threw  down  their  bags. 

"Who's  going  swimming  with 'me?"  called  Lloyd. 

"  Not  I,"  said  Fran. 

"I'm  going  to  start  supper,"  Annette  answered. 

"Til  go,"  Rita  called. 

"  And  I,"  Phil  Burton  appeared  in  the  hall.    "  Ralph?  " 

"  Cotter  chop  wood." 

So  the  three  started  down  the  path  together.  Phil  Bur- 
ton was  younger  than  his  brother;  tall,  like  him,  but  awk- 
ward and  ungainly.  The  irregular  features  that  made 
Ralph  handsome,  gave  Phil  the  appearance  of  a  small 
boy. 

"  Back  to  the  farm!  "  he  murmured.  "  And  gee,  it  feels 
good."  He  stopped  suddenly  and  turned  a  handspring  on 
the  grass.  "  Like  the  country,  Rita?  " 


PROLOGUE  221 

"  Yes."  Rita  smiled  at  Lloyd,  and  took  his  hand  as  she 
climbed  over  a  fence. 

Phil  gamboled  ahead  of  them,  like  a  boy  or  a  puppy, 
flecking  the  grass  and  flowers  with  a  stick  he  had  picked 
up,  kicking  stones  and  pieces  of  dead  grass  with  his  shoes, 
sniffing  the  salt  air  exuberantly. 

"  It's  nice  to  be  here  with  you,  Rita,"  Lloyd  said  softly. 

Rita  smiled.  She  was  thoroughly  content;  the  smell  of 
the  earth  and  the  sea,  the  wind  that  ruffled  the  grass  and 
swayed  the  trees  was  so  much  more  enjoyable  at  Long 
Island  with  Lloyd,  than  it  would  have  been  in  Larchborough. 
Larchborough,  besides  being  the  country,  always  brought 
back  her  childhood ;  people  there  still  treated  her  as  a  little 
girl.  But  here,  in  a  strange  town,  she  had  both  the  coun- 
try and  her  maturity;  she  could  run  and  skip  as  much  as 
she  liked;  there  was  no  cause  for  dignity. 

Fran  developed  a  personality  entirely  new  to  Rita;  she 
had  none  of  the  reserve  or  dignity  of  boarding-school,  none 
of  the  languor  or  sophistication  of  New  York.  She  put  on 
a  pair  of  tweed  breeches,  slightly  theatrical  in  cut,  but 
wholly  serviceable,  and  a  most  unbecoming  khaki  shirt. 
She  did  not  bother  to  curl  her  hair,  but  knotted  it  at  her 
-neck  and  fastened  it  with  a  ribbon  that  was  always  slipping 
over  one  ear.  And  she  played  enthusiastically  with  Phil; 
she  chopped  wood  and  cooked,  she  tramped  and  picked 
berries  until  her  white  hands  were  torn  and  rough  and 
stained. 

The  Burtons  kept  to  themselves  throughout  the  day,  and 
Lloyd  and  Rita  walked  lazily,  or  sat  on  the  beach  and 
talked  through  the  whole  week. 


222  PROLOGUE 

They  were  all  sitting  on  the  grass  at  the  side  of  the 
house,  the  remains  of  the  supper  spread  on  a  white  cloth. 

"  You  two  kids  don't  seem  to  be  real  country  people," 
Burton  said  to  Lloyd  and  Rita,  who  were  sitting  together, 
a  little  apart  from  the  others.  "  Look  at  those  slippers 
of  Rita's." 

Rita  thrust  out  a  foot  and  regarded  the  French-heeled 
slipper  thoughtfully. 

"  You  ought  to  be  climbing  trees  and  ruining  your  clothes 
like  Fran  here." 

"  Oh,  Rita  and  Evans  aren't  much  for  the  cows  and 
chickens,"  said  Phil.  "  They  sit  and  talk  about  art  or  life 
or  something  and  don't  know  whether  they're  in  New  York 
or  Hongkong." 

As  Rita  looked  up,  she  caught  Fran's  eyes,  looking  at 
her  thoughtfully,  and  yet  so  veiled  by  thought  that  they 
seemed  not  to  see  her. 

"  Oh,  I  like  the  country  all  right,"  she  said  carelessly. 
"  Just  to  prove  it,  Lloyd  and  I  are  going  walking  tonight 
and  enjoy  it,  instead  of  sitting  on  the  piazza  and  playing 
cards  the  way  you  all  do." 

Again  Fran's  eyes  traveled  from  her  to  Lloyd  thoughtfully. 
"  It's  so  quiet  and  peaceful  here,"  she  said,  "  that  it's  almost 
incredible  that  men  are  dying  across  this  same  water." 

Rita  looked  at  her  deliberately.  "  I  can't  believe  it,"  she 
said,  and  she  was  speaking  to  Fran  alone.  "  I've  absolutely 
forgotten  that  there's  a  war." 

She  and  Lloyd  wandered  off  down  the  country  road;  the 
sky  was  beginning  to  darken. 

"  First  star!  "  Rita  said  suddenly.    She  stood  quite  still, 


PROLOGUE  223 

her  hands  folded  behind  her  back.  "  Star  light,  star  bright, 
first  star  I've  seen  tonight — wish  I  may,  wish  I  might,  have 
this  wish  I  wish — tonight,"  she  chanted.  For  another 
moment  she  stood  looking  up  at  the  sky,  her  face  white  in 
the  light.  She  did  not  look  at  Lloyd  as  he  came  towards 
her;  when  she  finally  lowered  her  head  he  was  directly  in 
front  of  her.  She  returned  his  kiss  simply.  "  Got  my  wish," 
she  said. 

"Rita!  " 

She  smiled  at  him  gently,  and  he  drew  her  into  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  again  for  a  long  time.  When  he  released  her, 
she  sighed  happily,  and  they  walked  quietly  along  the  road. 
She  felt  suddenly  suffused  with  contentment;  she  was  a 
woman  now,  nineteen  years  old.  And  it  was  summer  and 
someone  loved  her — not  too  much;  just  a  nice,  pleasant 
little  love  for  the  summer-time. 

"  Good  to  be  loved,  and  to  love  for  a  little,  and  then — 
well  to  forget,  be  forgotten,  ere  loving  grow  life,"  she  quoted 
softly. 

"Rita!  " 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  dreamily.  "  Hearts  on  a  holi- 
day," she  said,  as  though  she  were  reminding  him.  "  Lloyd 
dear,  I  love  you  tonight." 

"Rita!  "  He  took  her  arm  roughly.  "Tonight!  "  he 
repeated.  "  Rita,  I  love  you — tonight  and  last  night  and 
tomorrow  night.  I  think  I've  always  loved  you,  ever  since 
I  met  you  two  years  ago.  Will  you  marry  me,  Rita?  " 

Rita  laughed.  "  Lloyd— silly !"  she  said.  "Of  course 
not.  '  Hearts  on  a  holiday ',  Lloyd.  Don't  spoil  it,  or  I 
shan't  love  you  even  tonight." 


224  PROLOGUE 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  But,  Rita,  I  do  care,"  he 
said.  "  Don't  you—" 

"  Hearts  on  a  holiday,"  she  repeated  severely.  "  Lloyd 
can't  catch  me!  "  She  darted  ahead  into  the  darkness,  and 
he  hesitated  a  moment  before  he  ran  after  her.  "  Oh, 
yes,"  she  said,  when  he  had  caught  her,  "  the  reward's 
always  a  kiss,  Lloyd.  But  then  no  more.  Let's  pretend — 
let's  pretend  that  I'm  a  beautiful  princess  who  has  been 
locked  in  a  great  garden.  There  are  dragons  with  red 
tongues  all  round  the  wall,  and  sea-serpents  in  the  moat. 
But  you  braved  them  all — you're  the  prince,  you  see — and 
you've  come  inside.  And  now  you've  got  to  be  very  charm- 
ing, even  though  you  have  been  so  brave.  Because  I'm  not 
the  sort  of  princess  who  would  give  my  love  just  because 
the  prince  had  killed  the  dragons." 

"  But,  dearest— " 

"  Going  to  pretend,  Lloyd?  " 

The  moon  had  come  up,  and  he  was  watching  her  face. 
"  Yes,"  he  said  finally,  and  sighed.  "  Fair  maiden — " 

IV 

Fifth  Avenue  looked  strangely  untidy;  women  in  dark 
skirts  and  soiled  white  shirtwaists,  men  carrying  their  coats 
and  hats,  taxi-divers  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  dusty  automobiles, 
children  eating  peanuts.  .  .  .  Rita  sat  on  the  top  of  a  'bus, 
fairly  cool  in  her  brown  linen  suit;  her  blouse  was  crisp,  and 
the  yellow  daisies  at  her  belt  were  unwithered. 

She  walked  to  her  office  briskly  and  smiled  at  the  stenog- 
raphers who  were  pounding  their  machines  aimlessly.  She 


PROLOGUE  225 

emptied  the  faded  flowers  from  the  vase  on  her  desk  and 
put  in  fresh  ones,  turned  to  the  mail  in  her  basket.  She 
was  working,  her  coat  still  crisp  on  the  hanger  that  hung 
from  the  back  of  the  door,  her  sleeves  rolled  up  over  her 
arms,  when  Blake,  head  of  the  Blake  Advertising  Company, 
came  in. 

"  Good-morning,"  Rita  said,  smiling.  He  was  a  big  man; 
in  the  winter  his  hair  seemed  less  flagrantly  blond,  his  face 
was  not  so  pink.  And  he  did  not  wear  pink  and  white 
striped  satin  shirts  without  a  coat.  Rita  wrinkled  her 
nose  in  distaste  as  he  sat  down  in  the  chair  beside  her 
desk.  "  What  can  I  do  for  you?  "  she  asked  crisply.  "  I'm 
pretty  busy — " 

"  Never  mind  that."  He  pushed  the  fresh  sheets  of 
paper  back  from  her  desk  with  his  dirty  pink  hand.  "  The 
work  can  wait.  You  look  pale,  Miss  Moreland." 

Rita  looked  at  him  humorously;  her  cheeks  were  tanned 
from  the  week-end  with  the  Burtons,  and  despite  the  hot 
weather  of  her  first  New  York  summer,  she  had  been  gain- 
ing in  weight. 

"  I'm  feeling  splendidly,"  she  said.  "  Is  there  anything 
you  want  to  see  me  about,  Mr.  Blake?  " 

He  laughed  and  stretched  out  his  legs  in  a  leisurely  fash- 
ion. "  I  just  came  in  to  call,"  he  said.  "  You  needn't  get 
that  stuff  out  so  fast." 

Rita  shrugged  her  shoulders;  after  all,  wasn't  there  some- 
thing about  being  more  royalist  than  the  king? 

"  I'm  going  to  take  my  vacation,  Miss  Moreland,"  he  said. 

"  It's  time  you  did,"  Rita  agreed.  "  You've  been  work- 
ing hard." 


226  PROLOGUE 

"  Going  on  a  yacht — up  along  the  Canadian  coast.  Pretty 
trip." 

"  Yes."  Rita  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  "  Was  there 
anything  in  particular — "  she  began  again. 

He  laughed.  "  Why  don't  you  come  out  to  dinner  with 
me  tonight?  "  he  asked.  "  We  can  go  to  a  show  or  a  roof 
afterwards." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't,  Mr.  Blake." 

"  Engaged?  " 

Rita  pushed  back  her  chair  and  looked  at  him  for  a 
moment.  Horrid  fat  thing.  "  No,"  she  said. 

"  Then  you'll  come." 

"  No,  Mr.  Blake,  I— I  don't  think  I'd  better." 

He  laughed  easily.  "  Sure  you'll  come,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
trot  along  back  to  my  office  now — shall  I  call  for  you  at 
seven?  " 

"  I  really  can't  go,  Mr.  Blake." 

"  Seven."    He  smiled  again,  masterfully,  and  went  out. 

Rita  sat  quietly  after  he  had  left,  looking  at  the  smirched 
papers  on  her  desk.  Her  work  was  well  in  order;  she  had 
finished  most  of  the  odd  bits  of  business  to  show  Blake 
before  he  left  New  York.  And  after  all — why  not?  It  was 
hot,  and  she  had  saved  a  good  bit  of  her  salary  each  week 
— she  thanked  her  Moreland  inheritance  for  that. 

She  drew  out  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote  her 
resignation  quickly;  then  she  slipped  it  into  an  envelope, 
addressed  it,  and  put  it  in  her  mail  basket.  She  put  on  her 
coat  and  hat  calmly,  and  walked  out  of  the  office. 

The  day  had  grown  hotter  with  the  rising  sun;  it  was 
past  eleven,  and  there  was  nothing  to  eat  in  the  apartment. 


PROLOGUE  227 

She  stood  uncertainly  on  the  pavement,  and  then  decided 
to  go  down  to  get  Lloyd  for  luncheon;  he  was  working  at 
home,  she  knew.  She  walked  down  the  Avenue  and  across 
to  his  apartment.  The  door  was  open,  and  she  went  in 
without  knocking.  He  was  sitting  at  his  typewriter,  his 
dark  hair  mussed  by  his  nervous  fingers,  scowling  over  the 
page  that  protruded  from  the  machine. 

"Rita!  I'm  awfully  glad  you  came."  He  held  out 
his  hand  and  she  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  lighted  a 
cigarette. 

"  Just  threw  up  my  job,"  she  explained. 

"  Why?  " 

"  Tired  of  it,  I  guess.  I  don't  care  much  for  Blake, 
anyway." 

Lloyd  wheeled  about  and  looked  at  her.    "  Was  he — " 

"  Oh,  no — I'm  just  bored  with  it  all.  How's  work 
going?  " 

"  Rotten.    You've  come  to  have  lunch  with  me?  " 

"  Yes— shall  I  get  it  ready  here?  " 

"  That  would  be  splendid." 

She  walked  over  and  peered  at  the  sheet  on  his  type- 
writer. "  Finish  that  chapter  while  I'm  getting  things 
ready — I'll  run  out  to  the  delicatessen."  She  waved  him 
back  as  he  started  to  get  up. 

They  talked  late  after  luncheon,  and  Rita  sat  while  he 
read  her  what  he  had  written. 

"  Give  me  all  your  first  day  of  freedom,  Rita,"  he  begged. 
"  Telephone  Fran  that  you  won't  be  home  for  dinner." 

"  All  right."  Rita  walked  across  to  the  table  and  tele- 
phoned. "  She's  going  out,  anyway.  Where'll  we  go?  " 


228  PROLOGUE 

He  stood  looking  at  her.  "  What  are  you  tonight?  The 
fairy  princess  or  the  freed  working  girl  or — " 

"  I'm  just  me,"  said  Rita.    "  Now  where'll  you  take  me?  " 

He  laughed.  "  Where  I  want  to  go,  then.  We'll  go  to 
the  Park  Avenue  and  sit  in  the  garden." 

Their  table  was  near  the  fountain,  and  Rita  half-closed 
her  eyes  as  they  sat  down.  The  courtyard  was  only  dimly 
lighted,  and  the  tablecloths  were  like  fallen  stars  when  you 
looked  through  half-closed  eyes.  The  water  in  the  fountain 
splashed,  and  there  was  a  subdued  tinkle  of  china  and 
glass. 

"  You  guessed  right,  Lloyd,"  she  said.  "  I  like  this 
better  than  any  other  place  in  the  world  tonight." 

They  were  silent  through  dinner;  the  evening  was  cool, 
and  their  contentment  was  so  great  that  they  did  not  want 
to  talk.  They  sat  over  coffee  and  liqueurs  for  almost  an 
hour. 

"  It's  so  peaceful  and  lovely,"  Rita  said.  "  I  suppose 
we  might  as  well  go,  but  I  don't  want  it  ever  to  end.  I'm 
happy,  Lloyd." 

"  Come  over  to  my  place  and  talk  for  a  time — we  might 
try  to  get  hold  of  Fran." 

Rita  smiled.  Neither  of  them  wanted  Fran,  and  Lloyd 
knew  that  she  knew  it. 

She  thought  idly  of  Ed  Sibley,  as  they  climbed  the  stairs 
to  Lloyd's  apartment.  The  living-room  was  deep  with 
shadows;  the  heavy  walnut  book-cases  melted  into  dark- 
ness; Lloyd's  great  mahogany  desk  gleamed  in  the  light  of 
the  street  lamps.  He  lighted  the  candles  on  the  reading 
table,  and  the  sconces  at  either  end  of  the  room.  For  a 


PROLOGUE  229 

moment  they  sputtered;   then  their  light  was  steady  and 
soft. 

"  It's  a  nice  place,"  Rita  said,  sinking  comfortably  into 
a  chair  by  the  window.  "  Fran  did  wonders  with  it  for 
you,  Lloyd — you  haven't  any  sense  at  all  about  fixing  a 
place." 

"I  haven't  any  sense  about  lots  of  things,"  he  said, 
sitting  on  the  floor  at  her  feet.  "  That's  why  I  want  you 
to  marry  me." 

"  Sounds  uncomplimentary,"  Rita  said,  "  but  I  know  what 
you  mean." 

"  Don't  you  care  at  all,  Rita?  " 

"  A  great  deal.    But  I  won't  marry  you." 

He  got  up  impatiently,  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room;  stood  looking  out  the  window  for  a  moment. 
"  But  do  you  think  it's  fair  of  you,  Rita?  "  he  asked 
finally. 

Rita  stretched  back  in  her  chair  languidly.  "  Fair  of 
me?  "  she  repeated. 

"  When  you  know  I  want  you  so  much?  " 

He  came  and  stood  facing  her,  and  Rita  smiled  gently 
at  him.  Then  she  got  up  and  took  both  his  hands.  "  Kiss 
me,  Lloyd." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated;  then  he  took  her  into  his 
arms.  "  Oh,  Rita,  I  could — "  He  turned  away  from  her 
angrily.  "  I'd  like  to  spank  you,"  he  said. 

Rita  laughed.  It  was  peaceful  to  have  Lloyd  with  her; 
she  liked  the  ruggedness  of  his  place  after  the  clear  sunni- 
ness  of  Fran's.  "  Lloyd  dear,"  she  said  gently.  "  I've  just 
said — just — that  I  wouldn't — marry  you." 


230  PROLOGUE 

"Rita!  " 

"  But  I  love  you  very  much,  and — "  She  waited  for 
him  to  come  and  hold  her  close  again. 

They  sat  quietly  together  on  the  couch,  and  for  a  long 
time  they  said  nothing;  they  hardly  dared  touch  each  other. 
Rita  sighed  happily. 

"  Let's  go  away  somewhere,"  Lloyd  said  suddenly.  "  To- 
night— tomorrow.  To  the  country  where  we  can  be  quite 
alone.  Let's — " 

"All  right,"  said  Rita.  "We  can  go  tomorrow.  You 
bring  your  typewriter  and  work,  and  I'll  keep  house — we'll 
get  a  little  place.  Oh,  Lloyd — " 

She  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  closed  her  eyes. 
Gradually  his  arm  about  her  lost  its  tenseness;  she  stirred 
a  little  until  she  was  comfortable.  She  could  hear  his  heart 
thumping;  her  own  was  strangely  quiet.  He  was  quiet, 
and  they  sat  motionless,  subdued. 

Lloyd's  arm  about  her  tightened;  she  looked  up  at  him 
lazily.  He  seemed  almost  frightened;  there  was  a  strange 
tightness  about  his  mouth.  Funny  that  he  should  be  afraid. 
He  had  loved  people.  She  was  the  one  who  should  be 
frightened. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  "  she  asked. 

He  smiled  as  he  looked  down  at  her,  a  smile  that  was 
tender.  "  Nothing,  dear.  You — you're  not  afraid?  " 

"  Afraid?  " 

Close  to  her  ear,  his  heart  was  pounding;  Rita's  eyes 
were  bewildered. 

"  Oh,  Rita — you  do  know?     You  won't  be — sorry?  " 

"  Sorry,  Lloyd?     Won't  it  be  very  beautiful?  " 


PROLOGUE  231 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  He  was  smiling  uncertainly  now.  "  You — 
you  do — want  me?  " 

Rita  stifled  the  matter-of-fact  "  Of  course  "  that  was  trem- 
bling on  her  lips.  "  Oh,  Lloyd!  "  she  said.  He  leaned 
forward  and  pulled  her  into  his  arms. 

Suddenly  he  drew  away  from  her,  sat  tensely,  listen- 
ing. 

The  door  of  the  apartment  opened. 

"  Hello,  kids!  "  Fran  said. 

Rita  looked  up  silently. 

"  Hello,"  Lloyd  said  at  last. 

"  I've  been  telephoning  about  madly  trying  to  get  hold 
of  you,  Rita — Blake  telephoned  the  house  and  thought  I 
was  you.  He  wouldn't  believe  I  wasn't.  What's  all  this 
about  giving  up  your  job?  " 

"  I  gave  it  up,"  said  Rita. 

Fran  laughed  and  threw  off  her  coat.  "  I'm  going  to  sit 
down  even  if  you  don't  ask  me  to,"  she  said. 

Lloyd  got  up  hastily  and  pulled  out  a  chair.  There  was 
a  moment's  silence. 

"  I  don't  want  to  bust  up  the  party,"  said  Fran.  "  Were 
you  reading  your  manuscript,  Lloyd?  Go  right  along  if 
you  were." 

"  We  weren't  reading,"  said  Rita. 

"  Then  let's  talk.    Where'd  you  have  dinner?  " 

"  Oh,  Fran!  "    Rita  looked  at  her  reproachfully. 

"  Yes,  dear?  " 

Rita  leaned  back  against  the  pillow  and  scowled.  "  Give 
me  a  cigarette,  someone." 

"  I  went  up  to  Claremont  for  dinner  with  Phil  Burton — 


232  PROLOGUE 

he's  a  nice  kid,  Rita.  He's  doing  awfully  interesting  work 
here.  He—" 

Rita  hurled  one  of  the  cushions  on  the  floor,  and  Fran 
looked  up  mildly.  "  Oh,  Fran — go  home!  " 

Fran  laughed.    "  Why,  Rita!     Shall  I  go  home,  Lloyd?  " 

Lloyd  was  silent. 

"  We're  pretty  stupid,"  said  Fran,  "  and  Lloyd  looks 
tired.  Come  on  home  with  me,  Rita." 

"  I'm  going  to  stay,"  Rita  said  sullenly. 

"  All  right.    Give  me  a  cigarette  then." 

Rita  got  up  indignantly.    "  Fran — won't  you  please — " 

Fran's  eyes  met  hers  smilingly. 

"  Oh,  all  right.  I'll  come  along  with  you."  Rita  picked 
up  her  coat  and  hat  indignantly.  "  Good-night,  Lloyd." 

"  But,  Rita— Fran— " 

"  Good-night,  Lloyd,"  said  Fran.  "  I  know  you  hate  me. 
But — good-night." 

They  went  out  together  and  took  a  'bus  silently,  walked 
silently  to  their  apartment  house. 

Rita  was  all  the  more  angry  with  Fran  because  of  a 
certain  relief  that  was  stealing  over  her.  She  had  been  drift- 
ing, wondering.  .  .  Fran  had  cheated  her  of  her  chance  to 
be  strong.  Perhaps.  .  .  And  she  was  angry,  furious  with 
Lloyd.  They  entered  their  apartment  silently. 

"  I'm  going  to  Larchborough  tomorrow,"  Rita  said 
abruptly. 

"  That  will  be  nice,"  said  Fran.    "  Oh,  Rita—" 

Rita  jerked  her  arm  from  Fran's  hand.  They  undressed 
without  speaking. 

"  Rita  dear—" 


PROLOGUE  233 

Rita  turned  off  the  light  and  climbed  into  bed.  Fran 
stood,  hesitating  for  a  moment.  "  I'm  sorry,  Rita,"  she 
said.  "  But — "  She  got  into  her  own  bed  without  say- 
ing anything  more. 


CHAPTER    TWO 


RITA  settled  herself  in  the  train  and  looked  about  curiously 
at  the  other  people  in  the  car.  It  was  not  until  the  engine 
snorted  and  the  train  jerked  forward,  settled  into  its  monot- 
onous, buzzing  glide,  that  she  thought  about  New  York  and 
Lloyd  and  Fran.  She  had  packed  her  things  hurriedly  and 
come  away  without  a  word  to  anyone,  with  only  the  curtest 
nod  to  Fran.  She  did  not  know  why  her  resentment  welled 
so  against  Lloyd,  but  she  felt  that  she  never  wanted  to  see 
him  again.  She  flushed  as  she  thought  of  the  evening 
before,  of  her  anger  and  humiliation. 

Already,  she  felt  that  she  was  out  of  New  York ;  the  rows 
of  untidy  tenement  houses,  with  untidy  women  leaning  from 
the  windows,  with  soiled  sheets  and  pillows  cluttering  the 
fire-escapes,  was  not  New  York.  It  was  strange  that  simply 
taking  a  taxi  to  the  station  and  boarding  a  train  could 
bring  her  so  far  away  in  so  short  a  time.  She  felt  that 
miles — years — separated  her  from  the  city  she  had  been  a 
part  of  only  the  day  before.  New  York  was  like  a  hyp- 
notist; within  its  limits  it  held  you  tenaciously,  guarded  you, 
according  to  its  own  ideas.  But  once  outside,  its  power 
faded;  already  Rita  found  her  mind  more  clear,  her  vision 
less  biased.  Outside  the  city,  she  thought  about  the  Rita 
Moreland  who  lived  in  New  York  as  another  person — 
and  she  wondered  at  her. 

234 


PROLOGUE  235 

As  the  train  drove  deeper  into  the  country,  her  content- 
ment increased.  The  complexities  of  life  were  either  dulled 
or  washed  away  by  the  open  sunshine,  by  the  thick  shades. 
Larchborough.  .  .  .  She  had  been  unhappy  there,  but  she 
knew,  as  though  she  could  foresee  it,  that  the  rest  of  the 
summer  was  going  to  be  suffused  with  calm. 

Once  in  Larchborough,  to  all  appearances,  she  was  merely 
a  tired  young  business  woman,  resting  for  another  year  of 
hard  work.  She  kept  much  to  herself;  in  her  new  detach- 
ment she  wanted  to  think  over  the  things  she  had  done  and 
learned  during  the  year  before.  Coming  to  Larchborough 
from  New  York  was  like  coming  home  from  a  gay  and  event- 
ful party;  she  could  kick  off  the  satin  slippers  that  were  too 
tight,  and  unfasten  her  dress,  sit  and  recall,  one  by  one, 
the  amusing  and  entertaining  and  unpleasant  events  that 
had  crowded  the  hours  before.  She  did  not  understand  the 
peace  that  filled  her  soul,  but  she  did  not  probe  deeply 
into  its  reason  for  being.  It  was  enough  that  she  was 
content. 

The  Larchborough  boys  sought  her  attention  in  vain; 
Roy  Warren,  coming  down  with  Estelle  for  a  visit,  found 
her  subdued  and  quiet.  She  talked  well  about  a  surprising 
number  of  things;  the  old  conversations  on  the  piazza  with 
Roy  and  her  father  began  again.  But  she  was  plainly 
detached  and  impersonal;  two  or  three  times  Roy  tried  to 
draw  her  out,  and  found  her,  not  stubborn,  not  uninterested, 
but  strangely  aloof.  And  she  was — or  seemed — quite  un- 
aware that  she  puzzled  her  friends;  she  accepted  life  with 
the  complacency  of  middle-age. 

"  The  man  Rita  cares  for  is  at  the  war,"  Lilias  explained 


236  PROLOGUE 

to  Bobby,  when  he  came  to  her,  bewildered  and  hurt  at 
Rita's  lack  of  interest  in  his  approaches.  Lilias  had  no 
idea  how  near  she  may  have  come  to  the  truth;  she  was 
more  than  doubtful  that  it  was  Donald  who  had  created  the 
change  in  her  tempestuous  young  daughter. 

But  Bobby  nodded  understandingly,  and  went  away,  more 
enraged  than  ever  with  his  father  and  mother  for  not  hav- 
ing brought  him  into  the  world  a  few  years  sooner,  and 
for  being  so  firm  now  in  their  stand  that  he  must  not 
enlist. 

Rita  scarcely  realized  the  existence  of  Bobby.  During 
her  first  weeks  at  home,  she  felt  only  a  sense  of  gratitude 
for  the  peace  and  simplicity  of  life.  Nothing  was  hurried; 
there  was  no  bother  of  deciding  where  to  dine  or  what  to 
do.  The  very  mechanics  of  life  were  as  subdued  as  the 
landscape.  She  found  th'at  there  were  many  books  she  had 
not  read — the  New  York  newspapers  came  to  her  regularly 
— and  she  went  through  them  with  a  new  interest  and 
thoroughness.  She  found  her  mind  more  open  to  ideas  than 
it  had  been  since  her  first  month  in  New  York;  she  sent 
to  the  city  for  books  and  pamphlets  that  were  referred  to; 
she  regretted,  for  the  first  time,  that  she  had  not  gone  to 
college.  She  wrote  to  Peg  and  to  Martha,  and  received  long, 
full  letters  in  return. 

Her  disordered  mind  found  relief  in  the  routine  she  set 
out  for  herself.  She  got  up  at  half-past  seven  every  morn- 
ing, and  swam  alone  across  the  lake  before  breakfast.  She 
refused  the  automobile,  and  walked  the  dusty  mile  of  road 
to  the  post-office  each  morning.  Back  at  the  house,  she 
read  the  newspapers  and  her  letters.  Usually  she  played 


PROLOGUE  237 

tennis  with  her  father  before  luncheon,  and  appeared  in 
the  dining-room,  fresh  and  glowing  after  her  second  swim. 
In  the  afternoon  she  read  until  tea-time,  and  then  daily 
surprised  her  mother  and  any  guest  who  happened  to  stray 
in,  by  coming  to  the  tea-table  in  a  more  sociable  frame  of 
mind  than  they  had  ever  seen  in  her.  She  talked  with 
Larchborough  women  whom  she  had  hitherto  avoided  as 
dull;  she  listened  to  Larchborough  scandal,  and  discussed 
the  high  cost  of  living. 

"  You've  changed  so,  Rita,"  Lilias  said  one  afternoon  as 
they  sat  on  the  piazza  waiting  for  their  tea.  "  I  can't 
understand  you  at  all.  You're  nice  to  people  now — old 
bores  like  that  Mrs.  Ashe.  And — " 

Rita  laughed.  "  I  guess  I'm  growing  up,  Mother.  I'm 
happier  than  I've  ever  been — God  knows  why.  I've  had 
indigestion  for  three  years,  ever  since  I  tried  to  swallow  New 
York  whole,  and  now  at  last,  I  seem  to  have  it  more  or 
less  digested." 

The  maid  wheeled  the  tea  wagon  through  the  glass  doors, 
and  Rita  stood  up  to  push  aside  her  chair  and  make  room 
for  it.  Lilias  looked  at  her  admiringly;  she  was  no  longer 
jealous  of  Rita — Rita  had  changed  from  a  pretty,  rather 
flirtatious  girl,  into  a  calm  young  woman  whom  she  could 
not  regard  wholly  as  a  woman.  There  was  something  boyish 
about  Rita,  about  her  freshness  and  crispness,  the  quick 
way  she  lighted  a  cigarette,  the  deftness  of  her  brown  hands, 
as  now,  when  she  was  pouring  out  tea.  While  she  had  under- 
stood Rita,  had  recognized  moods  and  expressions,  she  had 
resented  that  her  daughter  played  her  own  game  so  well. 
But  now  that  Rita  was  no  longer  a  real  rival,  now  that  she 


238  PROLOGUE 

had  become  an  entirely  different  type  of  woman  from  Lilias, 
the  resentment  vanished. 

Rita  became  suddenly  aware  of  her  mother's  scrutiny, 
and  smiled. 

"  Happy,  Mother?  "  she  asked 

•  "  Yes."  Lilias  smiled  back  as  she  took  her  cup  of  tea, 
and  Rita  watched  her.  She  was  still  beautiful,  still  soft 
and  appealing.  Her  hair  showed  no  gray;  it  was  only 
slightly  less  lustrous  than  when  Rita  first  remembered  it. 
And  although  her  skin  had  lost  its  freshness,  it  was  well 
cared  for,  and  her  great  eyes  were  still  lovely. 

"  If  you  had  your  life  to  live  over,  would  you  marry 
Father?  "  Rita  asked  her  suddenly. 

Lilias  put  down  the  tea-cup  abruptly.  Rita  did  not 
realize  that  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  asked  a  con- 
fidence of  her  mother.  "Why — Rita!  "  Lilias  said.  She 
looked  at  her  curiously.  "  I  don't  know,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  I  think — I'd  marry  him.  But  I'd  work  ever  so  much 
harder  to  keep  him.  You  see — "  She  stopped,  embar- 
rassed, but  Rita  was  looking  at  her  steadily.  "  I  love  your 
father,  you  see,"  she  said. 

Rita  leaned  over  and  patted  her  hand.  "  Marriage  is  such 
a  funny  thing,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  Father  wanted  you 
because  you  were  what  you  are — all  the  soft,  lovely,  fragrant 
things  you've  always  been — and  then  didn't  like  it  because 
you  kept  on  being  them." 

"  I  wonder  how  you  know  that,"  said  Lilias.  "  I  wouldn't, 
and  your  father  certainly  wouldn't.  You're  not  much  like 
us.  You—" 

"  I'm  sorry  you  haven't  been  happy,  Mother,"  said  Rita. 


PROLOGUE  239 

"  I  suppose  I  haven't  been  very  nice.  When  I  first  under- 
stood that  you — loved  other  people — I  was  horrified.  Kids 
are  such  little  prudes.  I  remember  I  was  a  violent  anti- 
suffragist  when  I  was  nine,  because  I  didn't  think  it  was 
ladylike  of  women  to  want  to  vote.  But  now — "  She 
hesitated.  Lilias  was  flushing,  and  Rita  smiled  comfort- 
ingly. "  I  just  want  to  tell  you  that  I  do  understand,  Mother. 
And  that  I— not  pity  you;  it  isn't  that— just  that  I'm 
sorry." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Lilias  said.  "  Happiness — I  did  want  to  be 
happy.  And  I  would  have  been,  but —  You  see,  I  do  love 
your  father." 

They  both  turned  as  he  came  up  the  path  from  the  lake. 
Lilias  looked  warningly  at  her  daughter,  and  Rita  smiled. 
"  We  were  talking  about  you,  Father,"  she  said. 

"  Oh?  "  Webster  Moreland,  brown  and  angular,  looked 
at  them  with  amusement. 

"  Yes.  Sometime  why  don't  you  give  us  a  chance  to  talk 
to  you,  Father?  " 

His  forehead  wrinkled  as  he  looked  down  at  his  daughter 
and  his  mouth  twitched.  "  What's  all  this?  "  he  asked,  sit- 
ting down.  "  May  I  have  some  tea?  " 

"  Of  course."  Rita  reached  toward  the  teapot,  and  then 
smiled.  "  I'll  let  Mother  fix  it — she  knows  what  you  take." 

Lilias  looked  at  Rita  apprehensively  as  she  poured  out 
the  tea  and  handed  it  to  her  husband,  nodded  at  his  thanks. 

"  Now  that  I'm  growing  to  be  a  big  girl,  and  don't  need 
a  father's  guiding  hand,  I've  decided  that  you've  been  a  very 
bad  father,"  Rita  said  lightly.  "  Very  bad  father  and  very 
bad  husband." 


240  PROLOGUE 

Webster's  flush  answered  Lilias's  and  Rita  grinned.  She 
was  like  a  boy,  her  mother  thought  helplessly. 

"  So  I  think  you  ought  to  begin  practising  being  a  family 
man  now,"  went  on  Rita  calmly.  "  Some  day  I'm  going  to 
be  bringing  home  grandchildren,  and  then  you'll  have  to  be 
good." 

Her  father's  head  was  tipped  a  trifle  to  one  side  as  he 
looked  at  her.  "  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  you're 
talking  about,  Rita?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  tell  you  for  the  world,  Father,"  she  answered 
impertinently.  "  But  I'm  glad  you  show  some  signs  of 
curiosity  about  something.  Why  don't  you  ask  Mother? 
I've  got  to  run  along  for  the  five  mail." 

She  got  up  and  ran,  hatless,  down  the  path.  "  What  in 
the  devil — what's  she  talking  about,  Lilias?  "  Webster  More- 
land  asked,  as  Rita  disappeared  into  the  trees  at  the  foot  of 
the  yard.  "  What  started  her?  " 

Lilias  looked  up  at  her  husband  in  amusement,  very  lovely 
with  her  flushed  cheeks  and  her  smiling  eyes.  "  Why,  she 
asked  me  whether  I  loved  you,  and  I  said  that  I  did,"  she 
answered  demurely. 

II 

As  the  summer  went  by,  Rita  and  Lilias  grew  closer 
than  they  had  ever  been.  Once  they  had  broken  the  reserve 
that'  lay  between  them,  it  was  easy  for  them  to  become 
friends,  because  they  had  none  of  the  barriers  that  rela- 
tionship usually  builds  up.  They  had  never  been  parent 
and  child;  ever  since  Rita  had  been  a  little  girl  they  had 
been  merely  two  women  living  under  the  same  roof,  women 


PROLOGUE  241 

with  a  certain  amount  of  conventional  affection,  the  one 
jealous,  and  the  other  disapproving. 

"  Do  .you  like  Lloyd  Evans,  Mother?  "  Rita  asked. 

"  I  like  him,"  Lilias  said.  "  He's  very  much  of  a  baby, 
I  should  imagine.  A  sentimental  baby.  I've  never  known 
him  well — I  think  he  was  always  a  little  afraid  of  me. 
That's  why  he  doesn't  fall  in  love  with  Fran,  of  course — 
he's  afraid  of  her." 

"  But — "  Rita  looked  at  her  mother  suddenly,  wide- 
eyed.  "  Lilias  Moreland,  do  you  think  that  Fran  Wood- 
ward is  in  love  with  Lloyd?  " 

Lilias  laughed.  "  Of  course  she  is.  She's  tremendously 
fond  of  him,  too.  That's  why  she  was  never  really  jealous 
of  you — she's  the  kind  of  woman  who  wants  the  man  she 
loves  to  have  what  he  wants." 

"  But — "  Rita  hesitated  again.  "  I  don't  believe  Fran 
was  jealous  of  me,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "  I  think — 
Mother,  Lloyd  wanted  me  to  marry  him." 

"  He  wasn't  in  love  with  you,  though." 

Rita  looked  out  at  the  lake  thoughtfully.  "  No — I  don't 
believe  he  was,"  she  said.  "  He  thought  he  was,  and — I — 
Good  Lord,  Mother,  I  was  blind!  It  never  entered  my  head 
that  Fran—" 

She  wrote  to  Fran  that  afternoon: 

"  I'm  sorry  I've  been  so  childish  and  silly.  Now  that  I'm 
away  from  you  all  and  New  York,  I  can  see  what  a  little 
idiot  I  was.  And  you  saved  me  from  being  even  more 
silly.  I'm — I  guess  grateful's  the  word,  Fran.  Because 
Lloyd  is  a  darling,  and  I'm  awfully  fond  of  him.  But  we 
don't  care  about  each  other,  of  course.  It  was  my  fault — 


242  PROLOGUE 

I  can  see  that  now.  I  was  lonely — lonely  for  Donald,  I 
think.  At  least  for  my  idea  of  Donald.  It  might  have 
been  anyone.  I'm  not  going  to  write  to  Lloyd,  but  if  you 
like  you  might  show  him  this  letter.  I  want  him  to  be 
friends,  too — I  think  we  can  be  awfully  good  friends  now. 
And  oh,  Fran  dear,  I'm  so  sorry  I  was  such  a  little  brute  to 
you.  You  do  forgive  me,  don't  you?  " 

In  two  days,  Fran's  answer  reached  the  Larchborough 
post-office. 

RITA — You  OLD  DEAR: 

"  I  didn't  believe  you'd  stay  angry — you're  not  that  sort, 
you  know.  I'm  glad  you  wrote.  Because  I  was  feeling 
pretty  blue  and  dissatisfied  with  things,  and  your  letter 
cheered  me  up  like  a  cocktail  after  a  long,  long  thirst.  I 
knew  we  couldn't  stop  being  friends  after  all  the  years  of 
friendship  we've  had.  And  Lloyd  has  got  over  his  mad — 
that's  why  this  is  only  a  note.  We're  going  out  to  dinner, 
and  I've  got  to  dress.  If  we  go  to  the  Park  Avenue,  I'll 
think  of  you,  old  dear.  Best  love — and  take  care  of  your- 
self. It's  going  to  be  great  to  have  you  back  in  New  York 
again. 

Lovingly, 

FRAN. 

Rita  smiled  as  she  finished  the  letter.  Her  mother  was 
right  and  she  was  glad.  She  turned  to  her  other  mail;  a 
long  letter  from  Peg  about  the  baby,  and  the  new  house  they 
had  bought  outside  New  York,  and  a  joint  letter  from  Lucy 


PROLOGUE  243 

and  Martha,  decorated  with  Lucy's  scrawling  drawings  in 
the  margin. 
"Oh,  it's  nice  to  have  friends!  "  said  Rita. 

Ill 

David  Ashley  followed  an  unexpected  telegram  to  the 
Mor eland  home. 

"  I've  just  come  from  New  York,"  he  said,  as  he  threw 
down  his  bags  and  shook  hands  with  them  all.  "  I've  been 
out  in  the  country  with  Peg  and  Jim  Norris.  But  I  was 
called  suddenly  to  New  York — I  know  I  ought  to  lead  up 
to  this  with  more  suspense,  but  I'm  bursting.  I've  just  been 
offered  the  editorship  of  Lisbon's  Magazine." 

"David!  "    Rita  shook  his  hands  excitedly. 

"  I'm  awfully  glad,"  Lilias  said. 

"  Fine  work,  Ashley,"  Webster  Moreland  approved.  "It's 
the  sort  of  thing  you've  always  wanted,  isn't  it?  " 

"  And  it's  come  to  me  at  forty-five — but  of  course  the 
thing  is  that  it's  come."  He  was  smiling  radiantly  as  they 
all  sat  down,  eager  to  hear  about  it.  "  I'm  going  to  have 
fairly  free  rein,  I  think,"  he  went  on.  "  The  magazine  is  in 
an  abominable  condition — they've  had  money  enough  to 
make  it  go,  but  they've  had  rotten  stuff." 

"  Oh,  what  fun!  "  Rita  said. 

Ashley  looked  at  her  humorously.  "  Peg's  been  reading 
me  your  letters,"  he  said.  "  That's  why  I  came  down  here. 
You've  got  over  your  incurable  boredom  at  last,  haven't 
you?  " 

Rita  laughed.     "  Guess  I  have,"  she  admitted.    "  But—" 


244  PROLOGUE 

"  Well,  to  be  brutal,"  he  answered  her  question,  "  if 
you're  going  to  be  any  sort  of  a  reasonable  human  being, 
instead  of  a  sniffling  little  flapper — "  He  paused,  but  Rita 
grinned  back  at  him — "  Why  then,  I'd  like  to  talk  business 
with  you." 

"  Talk  bus — David  Ashley,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I'm  getting  the  proper  suspense  this  time,"  he  said  to 
Webster  Moreland.  "  Merely  that  I  need  a  young  person 
— male  or  female — who  is  full  of  youthful  enthusiasm 
instead  of  youthful  ennui,  to  work  with  me.  There's  going 
to  be  a  lot  to  do,  and  it's  going  to  be  damned  interesting. 
And  I  tried  to  get  Peg  Norris — Peg  isn't  exactly  what  I 
want;  she's  a  little  too  one-sided.  Hasn't  got  the  human- 
interest  angle  we'll  need — a  little  intense.  But  she's 
wrapped  up  in  her  infant  and  wouldn't  consider  it.  So  she 
suggested  you." 

"  Me?  "  Rita  repeated. 

"That's  what  I  said,"  he  answered,  "Rita?  Two 
years  ago  I  wouldn't  have  hesitated.  Then  I  lost  faith  in 
you  a  little.  But  Peg  boosted  you  to  the  skies,  and  gave 
me — as  I  said  before — your  letters.  So  if  you're  in  the 
state-of-soul  you  were  in  two  years  ago,  and  have  added 
wisdom — " 

"Oh,  David!  "  Rita  looked  at  him  wistfully;  then  her 
eyes  began  to  dance.  "  The  first  thing  we'll  do  is  fire  the 
make-up  man — unless  the  office  boy  has  been  doing  the 
make-up  in  his  off  hours.  And  then — " 

"  You're  hired,"  Ashley  said,  smiling.  "  In  other  words, 
Rita  my  dear,  you  win." 

"  I  think  it  will  be  good  for  Rita  to  work  with  you," 


PROLOGUE  245 

Webster   Moreland  said.    "  You're   very   decent   to  want 
her." 

"  I  think  it  will  be  very  good  for  David  to  have  Rita 
working  with  him,"  Lilias  said  stoutly,  and  David  looked 
from  Rita  to  her  mother  in  sudden  wonder. 

Rita  saw  his  look,  and  laughed.  "  That's  a  good  mother 
for  you,  David,"  she  said.  "  It's  just  this  summer  that  I've 
discovered  what  a  peach  of  a  mother  I  have." 

Her  eyes,  looking  steadily  into  his,  told  him  more; 
explained  to  him  that  Rita  and  her  mother  had  at  last  be- 
come friends. 

"  Lilias  is  right,"  he  said.  "  It  will  be  good  for  me  to 
have  Rita  about.  She  makes  me  feel  young,  and  I'm  going 
to  count  on  her  now  to  keep  up  my  own  enthusiasm  if  it 
wanes." 

"  When  do  we  start?  "  Rita  asked  abruptly. 

"  I'm  going  to  start  work  Monday — I  just  imposed  on 
your  hospitality  for  the  week-end.  But  you'll  want  the 
rest  of  your  vacation,  and — " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  won't,"  Rita  denied.  "  I'll  start  on  Monday, 
too." 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Ashley — "  her  father  began  formally. 

"  If  you  can,  it  will  be  a  great  help,"  David  answered  for 
himself.  "  But  isn't  Monday  rather  short  notice?  " 

Rita  looked  at  her  mother  questioningly. 

"  We  can  get  her  ready,"  Lilias  said.  "  She  needs  clothes, 
but  she  can  take  my  suit — I  got  it  early.  And —  Let's  leave 
these  men  to  talk,  Rita,  and  go  upstairs  and  look  over 
things." 

Rita  smiled  gratefully  at  Ashley  as  she  passed  him. 


246  PROLOGUE 

IV 

Webster  Moreland  agreed  in  mild  surprise,  when  Lilias 
announced  that  she,  too,  was  going  to  New  York  to  open 
the  house. 

"  After  all,  it's  nearly  September,"  she  said,  "  and  I  want 
to  see  that  Rita  is  properly  taken  care  of.  You  can  stay 
down  here  for  a  while  longer,  if  you  like." 

"  I'd  just  as  soon  go  with  you,"  he  answered.  "  There 
are  some  people  I'd  like  to  see  in  New  York  about  some 
stuff  I'm  doing." 

"  What  stuff,  Web?  "  his  wife  asked.  "  The  house  for 
Mrs.  Ewing?  " 

Webster  looked  at  her  blankly.  "  What  do  you  know 
about  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  was  just  looking  over  your  drawings  the  other  day," 
she  answered.  "  You  see,  Rita  told  me  that  you'd  been  com- 
plaining because  your  things  were  disarranged  every  time 
Mary  cleaned  your  room.  So  I've  been  cleaning  it  myself. 
I  just  happened  to  see  the  plans,  and  they  looked  so 
lovely—" 

"  You?  "  he  asked. 

Lilias  Moreland  smiled  rather  like  a  small  boy  who  has 
been  caught  kissing  his  baby  sister.  "  Well?  "  she  said, 
laughing. 

"  But — "  He  looked  into  her  laughing  face  gravely. 
"  It  just  surprised  me.  By  the  way,  I  wonder  whether  you 
can  find  time  to  look  over  those  plans  with  me  today?  I 
like  a  woman's  point  of  view  on  things." 

His  wife  grinned  again.    "  Whenever  you're  ready,"  she 


PROLOGUE  247 

said,  and  left  him  wondering  why  she  laughed,  as  she 
turned  to  meet  Rita.  "  We're  all  going  to  New  York 
together,"  she  told  her.  "  Web  wants  to  get  in  town  any- 
way. Of  course  we  can't  go  on  Sunday  with  you  and  David, 
but  just  as  soon  as  we  can  get  the  house  in  order  and  the 
things  packed — " 

"  That  will  be  nice,"  said  Rita.  "  I've  rather  dreaded 
being  there  alone,  even  though  I  expect  to  be  awfully  busy." 

She  wondered  idly,  as  she  threw  the  last  things  into  her 
trunk,  and  opened  her  bureau  drawers  for  the  twentieth 
time,  that  she  was  so  happy.  But  the  contentment  of  Larch- 
borough  had  come  without  wondering,  and  she  intended  to 
accept  it.  She  had  been  afraid  for  the  winter  to  come, 
afraid  to  go  back  to  another  year  of  New  York  that  would 
be  in  any  way  like  the  others.  But  now  the  remaining 
months  of  Nineteen-seventeen  and  the  beginning  of  Nine- 
teen-eighteen  seemed  to  hold  only  wonderful  things  for 
her. 

She  smiled  at  the  bundle  of  Donald's  letters  on  her  bu- 
reau with  the  rest  of  the  things  she  had  saved  to  put  in  last 
of  all. 

They  were  nice  letters,  although  they  said  very  little. 
Donald  was  religiously  avoiding  both  the  war  and  them- 
selves, so  his  letters  were  bits  of  nonsense  and  stories 
about  the  other  men  in  his  division,  and  sometimes — with 
increasing  frequency — of  the  things  he  was  going  to  do,  of 
the  pies  he  was  going  to  eat,  when  he  returned.  They  were 
not  at  all  the  letters  of  a  lover;  Donald  was  dear  not  to 
want  her  to  worry,  not  to  remind  her  that  he  cared  for  her, 
when  the  anxiety  was  so  great. 


248  PROLOGUE 

It  never  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  Donald  cared  for 
her  no  more  than  she  cared  for  him. 

She  smiled  sadly  at  the  bundle.  She  would  not  know 
Donald  until  he  came  back — if  he  came  back.  Just  as  her 
boredom  and  dissatisfaction  of  the  year  before  were  dim  in 
her  mind,  so  was  her  picture  of  Donald,  of  Donald  as  he 
really  was.  He  had  become  to  her  during  the  summer  an 
ideal,  an  ideal  of  youth  and  the  beginnings  of  things. 
Now  she  could  write  to  him  only  gay,  cheerful  letters  of 
what  she  was  doing,  and  wait.  She  wondered  whether  they 
would  be  married  when  he  came  back;  life  with  Donald 
meant  peace  and  quiet  and  protection.  Never,  since  she  had 
known  him,  had  he  stirred  her  to  the  uncertainty,  the  hys- 
teria, that  a  single  day  of  New  York  could  produce.  Always 
he  was  something  calm,  something  quieting. 

After  all,  she  could  only  wait  and  see.  New  York  was 
ahead  of  her  now;  New  York  and  work  with  David  Ashley. 
She  felt  hardened  and  strong  physically,  after  her  two 
months  in  Larchborough.  She  looked  out  the  window  at 
the  lake,  happy  in  the  feeling  that  she  was  ready  for  any- 
thing. 

V 

David  Ashley  thanked  his  god  for  a  woman's  home-mak- 
ing instinct,  as  he  looked  about  the  offices  of  Lisbon's 
Magazine.  With  the  gray  washed  walls  and  the  hideous  oak 
furniture,  it  had  looked  like  the  home  of  a  gone-to-seed 
magazine  that  it  was.  He  had  no  money  to  buy  attractive 
rugs  and  prints,  and  any  efforts  at  decoration,  he  felt,  would 
have  been  futile.  But  Rita  had  attacked  the  rooms  as 


PROLOGUE  249 

though  they  were  a  stage  setting.  She  had  found  old  prints 
of  photographs  and  sketches  that  had  appeared  in  past 
numbers  of  the  magazine,  and  had  taken  them  from  the 
files  to  tack  upon  the  walls;  in  a  dingy  closet  piled  with 
bundles  of  cuts  and  original  drawings,  smeared  with  rubber 
cement  and  scrawled  with  the  blue  penciled  marks  of  the 
former  make-up  man,  she  had  discovered  cartoons  and 
paintings  that  blended  with  the  smoke-stained  walls  and 
gave  the  place  an  air  of  romance  and  interest. 

Her  own  corner  was,  as  her  office  at  Jim  Norris's  and 
with  the  Blake  Advertising  Company  had  been,  a  little 
feminine.  Prints  and  photographs  spattered  the  wall  above 
her  desk,  like  the  pictures  that  surround  the  mirror  in  a 
woman's  bedroom,  and  the  blue-green  bowl  of  flowers  was 
curiously  out  of  place  and  strangely  pleasant.  All  the  color 
in  the  office  came  from  Rita's  desk;  the  small  boxes  of 
Chinese  lacquer,  one  scarlet  and  one  green,  in  which  she 
kept  her  stamps,  the  absurd,  flower-like  contraption  that 
framed  the  mouthpiece  of  her  telephone  and  that  twisted 
about  and  unfolded  to  give  up  its  secret  of  telephone  num- 
bers. 

David  Ashley  found  her  unusually  useful.  Her  judgment 
on  fiction  and  articles  was  never  final,  but  her  scrawled 
comments  delighted  the  other  readers  and  himself.  There 
was  always  a  freshness  in  her  interest;  the  informality  of 
her  editorial  criticisms,  the  lurching  exclamation  points 
that  followed  her  "  Awful!  Eyewash!  !  "  on  some  articles, 
and  the  excitement  of  her  angular  writing  when  she  liked 
a  manuscript,  cut  into  the  monotony  of  the  work. 

Her  advertising  experience  proved  invaluable  in  the  writ- 


250  PROLOGUE 

ing  of  captions;  at  first  the  two  picture  pages  were  given 
her  tentatively,  but  within  a  month  they  were  hers — the 
ideas,  the  buying  of  the  photographs,  the  make-up,  and 
the  captions.  Although  Rita  had  not  gone  back  to  the 
crowd  that  eddied  about  Martha  Webb's  studio  with  the 
same  unquestioning  acceptance  of  their  doctrines  that  she 
had  had  when  she  first  knew  them,  she  went  there  often  and 
sometimes  her  captions  had  to  be  toned  down  and  deleted 
for  the  benefit  of  those  whom  Rita  called  pityingly  "  the 
poor  public  ".  She  was  developing  radical  ideas,  and  when 
Lisbon's  Magazine  appeared  with  a  page  of  pictures  of 
Russian  revolutionists,  of  posters  and  banners,  Rita's  en- 
thusiastic captions  had  been  subjected  to  severe  treatment 
by  David  Ashley's  blue  pencil. 

"  But,  David,  don't  you  believe  in  the  Russian  revolu- 
tion? "  Rita  asked  him.  "  Don't  you  believe  the  people 
who  have  come  back — people  like  Bessie  Beatty  and  Will- 
iams— rather  than  the  washed  out  newspaper  stories  we 
get?  " 

Ashley  laughed.  "  That  isn't  the  question,  Rita,"  he 
said.  "  The  dear  public  has  to  be  fed  gently — you  ought 
to  thank  your  god  that  I'm  not  making  you  write  more 
conservative  stuff." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  it,';  Rita  said.  But  she  knew  that  she 
would  do  almost  anything  for  David;  working  with  him 
was  a  joy,  and  she  was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  in 
her  life. 

Her  mother  had  plunged  into  Red  Cross  work  with  an 
enthusiasm  that  surprised  both  Webster  and  Rita.  Rita 
had  laughed  tenderly  at  Lilias's  pleasure  when  she  was 


PROLOGUE  251 

asked  to  pose  in  a  tableau.  She  was  extremely  lovely,  with 
her  veil  of  soft  chiffon  and  her  pure  dress,  and  her  face  was 
wistful  and  sympathetic.  Rita  felt  years  older  than  her 
mother  as  she  looked  at  the  photographs;  old  and  in- 
tensely tender  toward  her.  Her  mother  and  father  were 
growing  middle-aged ;  Lilias  had  softened  and  changed. 

"  You  know — I  wish  we  had  a  son,"  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band one  night  at  dinner.  She  had  been  telling  him  of 
letters  from  soldiers  that  had  come  to  the  Red  Cross  head- 
quarters, of  the  mothers  of  soldiers  she  had  talked  with. 
They  were  all  three  moved  and  quiet,  and  Webster  More- 
land  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  his  wife's  arm  gently. 
Rita  smiled;  it  was  beautiful  to  her  to  see  her  mother  and 
father  coming  together.  It  was  too  late,  of  course,  for  them 
to  forget  the  years  that  had  gone  by,  but  the  war  and  Lilias's 
new  tenderness  were  creating  a  bond  of  sympathy  between 
them  that  made  the  Moreland  home  more  peaceful  than  it 
had  ever  been. 

The  year  moved  by  quickly.  The  hysteria  of  New  York 
that  in  the  other  years  seemed  to  her  to  have  been  centered 
solely  on  Rita,  was  turned  toward  the  war.  There  were 
parades  and  fetes  and  benefits;  there  were  shops  and  sales 
and  headquarters  for  hundreds  of  different  funds.  Rita 
felt  that  her  life  was  somehow  in  her  own  hands  now;  that 
the  dances  and  parties  which  had  taken  her  from  other  things 
before  had  lost  their  hold. 

"  I  think  you're  finding  your  New  York,  Rita,"  David 
Ashley  said  one  Sunday  afternoon,  smiling  from  his  corner 
of  the  couch  in  Rita's  living-room.  "  You  remember  I  said 
you  would." 


252  PROLOGUE 

"  I  think  I  am  too,  David.  I'm  getting  more  perspec- 
tive. I'm  not  confining  myself  to  any  one  group  of  people 
or  ideas — there's  still  Peg  and  Martha  and  Lucy,  with  their 
radicalism  and  their  flock  of  pacifists,  revolutionists,  and 
what-not.  And  there's  Fran,  with  her  filleids  and  her  boys 
in  khaki  and  her  benefits.  And  Mother  and  her  Red  Cross 
friends.  And —  Don't  you  think  Donald  is  going  to  find 
me  changed,  David?  " 

Ashley  smiled.  "  I  think  you're  going  to  find  Donald 
changed,  too,"  he  said. 

Rita  looked  up  quickly.  "  Meaning  that  I'm  a  little 
egotist?  "  she  asked.  "  I  suppose  I  am,  David.  Have  you 
heard  from  Donald  lately?  " 

"  He  writes  quite  often — I  try  to  get  off  a  letter  to  him 
every  week  to  give  him  my  angle  of  conditions  here.  They're 
so  far  away,  those  boys." 

"  I  haven't  written  him  much  about  things  here,"  Rita 
said  reflectively.  "  I  haven't  written  much,  anyway — just 
sort  of  empty  letters.  I  can't  quite  get  my  angle  of  attack 
towards  Donald."  Ashley  laughed  and  Rita  shook  her 
head.  "  I  mean  I  don't  quite  know  how  to  talk  with  him. 
If  he  was  a  soldier  I'd  never  met,  like  some  of  Fran's  funny 
ones,  I'd  be  all  right.  But  with  Donald .  .  .  " 

"  He's  learning  a  lot,"  David  said.  "  I  think  you're 
going  to  find  him  more  changed  than  he's  going  to  find 
you,  Rita.  But  you'd  do  that,  anyway.  After  all,  all  you 
know  about  him  is  that  he's  a  man — young,  nice  looking, 
attractive,  who  made  love  to  you." 

"  Not  very  distinctive,  is  it?  "  Rita  admitted.  "  No,  I 
don't  know  Donald.  It's  going  to  be  interesting  meeting 


PROLOGUE  253 

him  again."  She  looked  into  the  fireplace  absently,  and 
thought  of  the  boy  who  had  talked  with  her  so  many 
times  in  this  same  room,  before  the  same  fire.  "  It's  ter- 
rible to  think  of  him  over  there,"  she  said,  shuddering. 
"  We're  so  warm  and  comfortable  here  with  our  fire  and  our 
toast  and  jam  and  tea.  But  Donald — why,  David,  Donald 
may  be  dying!  " 

Ashley  was  silent.  "  A  lot  of  them  are  dying,"  he  said 
finally.  "  Lord,  Rita — "  He  got  up  and  walked  toward 
the  window  impatiently,  stood  with  his  back  toward  Rita 
for  several  minutes.  "  By  the  way,  my  kid  sister  is  coming 
on  here  in  a  few  days,"  he  said. 

"  Your  sister?  I'll  be  glad  to  see  her,  David.  Will  she 
be  with  you?  " 

"  I  think  so.  She — she's  a  nice  kid,  Rita.  Only  twenty- 
one.  Her  husband  was  killed  last  month— over  there." 

"  Oh,  David!  " 

He  came  back  to  the  couch  and  sat  down.  "  Nice  boy, 
too — Kenneth  Lane.  They'd  been  married  only  two  months 
when  he  went.  I  want  you  to  help  me  interest  Marjorie 
in  things — she's  pretty  broken  up,  of  course.  I  don't  know 
what  she's  going  to  do.  Oh  God,  Rita,  this  war!  " 

"  When  did  you  say  your  sister  got  here?  "  Rita  asked 
finally. 

"  Monday,  I  think." 

"  Bring  her  up  for  dinner,  David." 

He  looked  up  quietly.  "  Thanks — I'd  like  to.  And  now 
I  must  be  going  along,  Rita.  There's  some  stuff  I've  got 
to  get  in  shape  for  tomorrow,  and —  If  you  have  any  bril- 
liant ideas  for  a  couple  of  editorials — " 


254  PROLOGUE 

"  I'll  be  thinking,  David.    Page  run  short  again?  " 

"  Yes." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Rita  sat  before  the  fire,  think- 
ing. David's  sister .  .  .  And  her  husband  was  killed.  She 
had  been  married  oniy  two  months  when  he  left.  And 
Donald.  .  .  .  Donald  was  there  now — perhaps  in  action. 
She  closed  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  if  he'll  only  come  home!  "  she  said.  "  I  do  want 
him.  Donald—" 


CHAPTER    THREE 

I 

March  i2th,  1918. 
DEAR  DONALD: 

It's  weeks  since  I've  written,  but  I'm  going  to  try  to  write 
a  long  letter  now  to  make  up  for  it.  We  have  been  terribly 
busy  on  the  mag — I  suppose  David  has  written  you  about 
that.  He  got  into  trouble  over  an  editorial  that  the  dear 
owners  thought  was  too  radical — I'm  afraid  it  was  partly 
my  fault,  because  I  told  him  it  was  tame — but  that  has 
blown  over  and  now  we're  settled  back  into  the  routine — 
at  least  as  much  of  a  routine  as  there  ever  is  at  the  office. 
That's  the  fun  of  our  work — there  are  new  ideas  and  plans 
every  day,  and  writers — correspondents — cartoonists — drift- 
ing in  from  all  ends  of  the  earth  with  interesting  dope. 

You  say  I  haven't  written  you  a  thing  about  New  York, 
and  that  you  don't  think  it's  fair  of  me  not  to  share  the 
city  I  love  with  you.  Well,  it's  a  strange  place  these  days, 
Donald.  Our  little  war  hysteria  must  seem  very  silly  to 
you  men  over  there.  New  York  has  been  curious  and 
strange  all  through  the  war. 

When  war  was  declared,  there  was  the  expected  wave  of 
excitement.  America  is  so  funny;  it  was  just  as  though 
we  had  discovered  the  war.  We  really  felt  quite  patroniz- 
ing towards  the  English  and  French  and  Italians  until  we 
came  in,  and  had  a  kind  of  tolerant  interest  in  their  little 

255 


256  PROLOGUE 

fight.  But  when  we  were  a  part  of  it,  it  was  transformed 
in  the  time  it  took  to  get  the  news  from  Washington  trans- 
lated into  headlines  and  whistles  and  cannon  reports — into 
a  war  as  was  a  War.  It  was  Our  War.  Our  Brave  Allies. 
We  were  out  to  Save  France — and  how  furious  it  must  make 
the  French! 

New  York  took  it  at  first  rather  like  a  musical  comedy. 
Much  money  was  spent  on  beautiful  new  gleaming  flags  and 
banners;  there  were  fetes  and  parties  and  benefits — with 
much  music  and  pomp  and  color.  Of  course  they  spent  as 
much  money  on  decorations  as  they  made.  People  began 
sporting  American  flags  in  their  buttonholes,  and  smart 
shops  showed  red,  white,  and  blue  frocks  and  hats  and  even 
underwear  in  their  windows. 

Even  when  the  men  began  to  go  away — parades  of  boys 
in  uniform  with  music  and  banners — it  wasn't  quite  real. 
I  think  it  first  got  me  when  I  was  riding  down  the  Avenue 
on  a  'bus  and  I  heard  singing.  We  stopped  to  let  a  parade 
of  drafted  men  go  by.  I  said  parade — it  wasn't  a  parade. 
They  were  going  to  Yaphank — still  in  cits,  of  course.  There 
were  about  fifty  of  them.  They  couldn't  march  worth  a 
cent — they  weren't  even  trying.  They  had  on  every  con- 
ceivable product  of  a  tailor's  shop,  some  of  them  in  loud 
checks,  some  in  really  smart  English  suits — and  a  lot  of 
them  in  flannel  shirts  and  corduroy  trousers.  They  carried 
every  conceivable  sort  of  baggage,  from  good-looking  leather 
suitcases  to  straw  valises,  bright,  patched  carpet-bags  and 
newspaper  bundles.  And  there  were  women — women  cry- 
ing— clinging  to  them,  and  a  bunch  of  dirty,  frightened 
little  children  straggling  on  behind,  holding  their  mothers' 


PROLOGUE  257 

hands  and  linking  off  in  chains  like  rowboats  after  a  yacht. 
I  simply  sat  there  and  howled — the  tears  began  going  down 
my  face  and  at  first  I  tried  to  stop,  then  I  got  out  my  hand- 
kerchief and  gave  in.  When  the  'bus  started  again,  I  looked 
about,  a  little  ashamed,  and  saw  that  everyone  else  was 
crying. 

The  uniforms  hadn't  got  me  at  all  up  till  then — but  those 
poor  little  civilians  who  didn't  look  any  more  like  soldiers 
than  I  do — simply  tore  me  up. 

After  that  I  was  pretty  weepy.  I  always  saw  those  poor 
little  frightened  defiant  civilans — some  of  them  singing, 
some  of  them  just  swallowing  the  lumps  in  their  throats  and 
blinking — whenever  a  parade  of  good-looking,  upright, 
uniformed  men  marched  beautifully  down  the  Ave- 
nue. 

And  I  think  the  rest  of  New  York  began  to  get  it  then, 
too. 

There  have  been  the  Commissions — and  the  people  who've 
been  in  the  war  since  the  beginning  have  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent look  in  their  eyes  from  our  men.  New  York  saw 
that,  too.  The  different  Commissions  marked  a  change — 
the  Belgian  came  last  and  there  was  more  crying  than  cheer- 
ing somehow,  when  they  came  down  the  Avenue.  We're 
beginning  to  forget  about  letting  the  eagle  scream,  and  we're 
thinking  about  the  war. 

And  now  wounded  soldiers  are  coming  back — Lord,  Don- 
ald! It's  the  first  we've  seen  of  war;  the  gold  service  stars 
that  people  in  black  are  wearing,  and  those  men  without 
legs  and  arms.  And  the  casualty  lists  in  the  newspapers — 
whether  you've  got  anyone  over  there  or  not,  you  can't 


258  PROLOGUE 

help  reading  every  name  on  the  list.  And  when  you  think 
of  those  names  as  individual  men  with  folks — 

I  don't  know  why  you  want  to  know  all  this.  It  isn't 
particularly  cheerful.  Perhaps  that's  why  I  haven't  writ- 
ten— I  thought  you  were  pretty  well  fed-up  on  war.  But  I 
suppose  it  has  a  fascination.  Like  talking  about  operations 
when  you're  going  to  have  one. 

David  Ashley's  sister,  Marjorie  Lane,  is  here  now.  Her 
husband  was  killed  in  action  two  months  ago  and  David 
brought  her  on  to  New  York  to  try  to  get  her  interested  in 
things.  I'm  sending  you  a  picture  of  her  and  me  that  David 
took  when  we  went  up  to  Central  Park  last  week — it's  lovely 
of  Marjorie,  I  think.  But  nowhere  near  as  lovely  as  she  is. 

Donald,  she  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  have  ever  seen 
in  my  life!  Magazine  covers  simply  aren't  in  it.  Her  hair 
is  like  honey  with  champagne  in  it,  and  her  eyes  are  so  blue 
that  they  positively  hurt.  She  has  a  way  of  tying  a  piece  of 
black  lace  about  her  head  when  she  goes  out  in  the  eve- 
ning— she  says  the  light  blinds  her,  but  I  know  it's  simply 
mercy  on  her  part,  so  that  those  blue  eyes  won't  smite  every- 
one dead  that  they  turn  on.  She's  quite  like  David — and 
you  know  what  that  means  coming  from  me.  I  worship 
the  ground  David  Ashley  walks  on — you've  no  idea  how 
wonderful  working  with  him  is. 

Marjorie  has  simply  come  into  our  midst  and  become  the 
adored  one  of  us  all.  Everyone  is  mad  about  her.  She  and 
Fran  have  struck  up  a  curious  friendship — by  the  way,  did 
I  write  you  that  Lloyd  Evans  surprised  us  all  by  up  and 
enlisting  a  couple  of  months  ago?  And  at  this  late  date! 
He  was  in  the  draft,  of  course,  but  for  one  reason  or  another 


PROLOGUE  259 

he  hadn't  been  called.  Marjorie  is  awfully  good  for  Fran, 
I  think.  The  war  has  subdued  Fran  a  great  deal;  she's 
given  up  her  place  at  the  Hotel  des  Artistes,  and  with  it, 
she  seems  to  have  given  up  all  the  artificiality  of  her  life. 
The  war  means  a  lot  to  her — she  has  always  known  so  many 
men,  been  more  or  less  dependent  on  them — and  they've 
all  gone.  The  ones  that  haven't  enlisted  she  has  no  use  for. 
She's  got  a  fairly  good  part  in  a  play  that's  been  running  for 
four  months,  and  I  think  that  next  year  she'll  find  a  lead 
on  her  hands.  She's  had  awfully  good  reviews — she  seems 
to  have  found  her  soul,  somehow.  I  think  you'll  lik°.  her 
when  you  get  back. 

We've  all  changed  so. 

Jim  Norris  has  been  trying  to  enlist  ever  since  the  war 
started,  but  they  won't  have  him.  He's  in  Washington  now, 
doing  some  sort  of  war  work  at  no  salary  at  all,  and  Peg 
has  had  to  tear  herself  from  the  baby's  side  and  go  out  and 
do  some  articles.  It's  a  good  thing  for  her,  I  think — she 
was  getting  frightfully  dependent  on  the  kid. 

There — who  says  I  can't  write  a  long  letter?  But  I've 
honest  got  to  get  to  work  now.  I  brought  some  pictures 
home  to  fuss  with — they're  the  most  ungodly  collection  of 
sizes  and  shapes,  and  I've  got  to  arrange  them  in  as  decent 
a  make-up  as  I  can  for  the  page.  As  usual  we're  horrified 
for  fear  the  mag  will  be  late.  It  never  is,  but  how  we 
manage  to  skin  by  with  it,  God  only  knows.  David  works 
like  a  Trojan  all  the  time  and  I  have  been  known  to  work 
outside  office  hours  myself.  David  has  just  put  through  a 
raise  for  me — he's  an  old  dear.  And  I'm  actually  saving 
money!  It's  so  funny  for  me  to  find  a  bank-book  mount- 


26o  PROLOGUE 

ing  up.  But  people  are  getting  out  of  the  habit  of  spend- 
ing— oh,  of  course  lots  of  people  spend  just  as  much  as  they 
ever  did,  but  it  isn't  so  fashionable. 

Father  and  Mother  are  well — I  haven't  seen  Mother  for 
months  without  a  sock  or  a  bandage  in  her  hands.  Father  is 
doing  his  old  work  with  an  eye  out  towards  reconstruction 
work — there's  a  chance  that  he  and  Mother  may  go  over 
after  the  war. 

After  the  war,  Donald —  It  must  be  going  to  end  soon. 
You  don't  know  how  glad  we're  all  going  to  be  to  see  you. 

Love  from  everyone,  and — take  care  of  yourself. 

RITA. 

April  6th,  1918. 
DEAR  DONALD: 

Spring  is  here  really.  Oh,  we  have  our  days  of  bad 
weather,  but  the  air  has  an  earthy  smell,  and  the  flower- 
vendors  are  out  on  the  Avenue  with  their  arbutus  and  violets 
and  daffies  and  roses.  Funny  flowers  that  fade  almost  at 
once,  but  I  always  buy  them.  They're  like  the  flowers  that 
the  cross-eyed  man  used  to  sell  at  Jack's — maybe  he  still 
does,  but  now  that  places  close  at  twelve  we  never  think  of 
going  there — and  that  Fran  always  insisted  he  used  to  steal 
from  graves. 

We're  hearing  much  about  the  Russian  Revolution  these 
days — Lord,  how  I'd  like  to  go  over  there!  I  suppose  you 
share  the  feeling  that  is  natural  to  people  who  are  fighting 
that  Russia  played  a  dirty  trick  on  the  Allies,  but  I  can't 
blame  her.  I  hope  the  dear  censor  won't  get  mad  with  me 
for  these  sentiments — he  ought  to  recognize  my  handwriting 


PROLOGUE  261 

by  now  and  realize  that  I'm  a  violently  pro-ally  young  per- 
son. Lloyd  has  been  writing  awfully  amusing  letters  to 
Fran — they're  going  to  be  married  when  he  gets  back.  He 
always  begins  them,  "  Dear  Mr.  Censor,  It  may  interest  you 
to  know  that  I  miss  a  certain  young  lady  in  New  York  ter- 
ribly, and  that — "  and  so  on.  He's  very  gay  in  all  the 
letters  Fran  lets  me  see — I  think  the  war  is  doing  him  a  lot 
of  good ;  giving  him  a  certain  balance  and  putting  him  closer 
in  touch  with  other  men  than  he  has  ever  been  in  his  life. 
He  ought  to  write  well  when  he  gets  back. 

I'm  still  awfully  busy  with  the  job  and  with  all  my 
friends.  Marjorie  and  I  run  about  together  after  office- 
hours,  and  Peg  is  really  her  old  self  again — when  Jim  comes 
up  from  Washington,  as  he  does  occasionally,  we  have 
parties  and  are  very  gay. 

I'm  having  a  really  female  party  next  week — Peg  and 
Martha  and  Lucy  and  Fran  and  Marjorie — six  of  us.  New 
York,  at  least  in  our  old  crowd,  is  quite  man-less.  They're 
not  all  in  the  army,  but  like  Jim,  many  of  them  are  work- 
ing in  Washington. 

When  you  get  back,  Donald,  we'll  have  a  real  party — like 
the  one  we  had  at  New'  Year's — remember?  Be  a  good  boy 
and  remember  to  avoid  all  bullets  and  bombs. 

As  ever, 

RITA. 
II 

April  loth,  1918. 
DEAR  RITA: 

As  I  have  said  many  times  before,  it's  great  hearing  from 
you.  What  between  you  and  David,  I  get  all  the  good  dope 


262  PROLOGUE 

on  what's  what  in  New  York  and  the  States — I'm  extremely 
popular  with  the  New  York  men  in  the  division;  none  of 
them  have  such  busy  little  letter- writers  as  you  two.  Grate- 
ful's  no  word  for  it.  I  look  forward  to  the  mails  like  a  love- 
sick maiden,  and  I'm  usually  rewarded — David  hasn't  missed 
a  Sunday  since  I  got  over.  Pretty  good,  what? 

We've  been  rather  busy  lately — a  few  trifling  little  affairs 
with  the  dear  enemy.  I'm  writing  this  on  my  knees,  which 
is  why  the  writing  is  so  shaky — it  ain't  nerves.  Although 
the  whole  damned  bunch  of  us  are  developing  the  habits 
of  Ben  Bolt's  little  friend  Alice — I  don't  mean  the  marble 
slabs,  I  mean  the  weeping-with-delight  and  trembling-with- 
fear  stuff.  Well  be  glad  to  be  relieved. 

As  usual,  there's  a  rumor  afloat  that  the  war  won't  last 
more  than  five  years  longer — I  don't  know.  I  suppose  you 
in  New  York  know  more  about  that  than  we  do. 

Here's  hoping  it's  over  soon,  and  we'll  all  be  together. 
We're  going  to  have  some  great  parties  if  I  have  anything 
to  do  with  it. 

Yours, 

DONALD. 

"  There!  "  Rita  said,  as  Fran  finished  reading  Donald's 
letter  and  returned  it  to  her.  "  How  in  the  name  of  heaven 
do  you  expect  me  to  know  whether  I'm  in  love  with  him  or 
not?  My  Lord,  Fran!  I  tell  you  I  don't  know  anything 
about  him." 

Fran  laughed.  "  Of  course  my  matchmaking  instincts 
are  all  roused — I'm  so  very  happy.  I  know,  somehow,  that 
nothing  will  happen  to  Lloyd — it  simply  couldn't,  Rita.  I 


PROLOGUE  263 

don't  know  that  I  believe  in  God,  but  I  know  that  there's 
something  that  won't  let  Lloyd  be  taken  from  me 
now." 

"  He'll  come  back,"  Rita  said.  "  How's  the  rummage  sale 
getting  on?  " 

Fran's  eyes  had  grown  soft  and  Rita  was  afraid  that  she 
was  going  to  cry;  Rita  half  envied  her  unhappiness,  because 
she  had  her  love  with  it. 

"  That's  what  I  came  over  for,"  Fran  said.  "  I  wondered 
if  you  could  come  over  and  help  us  tomorrow  afternoon — 
can  you  get  away?  " 

"  Tuesday.  Oh,  I  guess  so,"  Rita  answered.  "  When  do 
you  want  me?  " 

"  About  two  o'clock.    Who's  coming?  " 

They  turned  and  smiled  at  the  girl  who  stood  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  She  was  in  white  and  her  golden  hair 
and  brown  skin  gleamed  as  she  stood  in  the  dark  doorway, 
with  the  light  flooding  behind  her. 

"  All  alone  here  in  the  firelight?  "  she  asked.  "  David's 
downstairs  with  your  father,  Rita — he's  coming  up  after 
a  time.  Hello,  Fran." 

"  Hello,  dear." 

Marjorie  Lane  threw  her  drooping  white  hat  on  the  table 
and  came  over  to  the  couch  beside  them.  "  It's  glorious 
out  tonight — all  warm  and  starry.  And  I'm  happy.  Rita, 
what  do  you  suppose  has  happened?  " 

"  What?  " 

"  Sold  a  story." 

"  Marjorie!  " 

She  nodded  her  head  up  and  down  several  times,  and  her 


264  PROLOGUE 

eyes  were  round.  "  Honest.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars! " 

"  Marjorief  " 

"  I  know — isn't  it  gorgeous?  And  so  David  and  I  went 
out  to  dinner  and  spent  just  as  much  of  it  as  we  could  on 
food  and  drink.  Champagne,  Rita!  And  we  want  to  drag 
you  two  out — which  is  why  I  prefaced  my  remarks  with 
the  fact  that  it's  a  glorious  night."  She  laughed,  and  Rita 
and  Fran  laughed  with  her. 

"  Of  course  we'll  go,"  said  Fran.  "  I'm  pretty  untidy — 
I've  been  at  that  blamed  rummage  sale  all  afternoon  and 
I  came  up  here  for  dinner  with  Rita  without  changing, 
but—" 

"  I'm  glad  you're  untidy,"  Marjorie  said.  "  I  hope  you 
are  terribly  untidy — I  can't  see  in  this  light.  Because  I'm 
terribly  jealous  of  you,  Fran,  and  I  insist  on  being  the  loveli- 
est lady  present  tonight.  Rita,  have  you  on  an  unbecoming 
dress?  " 

"  Frightfully,"  Rita  assured  her.  "  I  look  worn  and 
dragged,  my  dear.  But  when  you're  in  white,  you  needn't 
be  jealous  of  anyone,  you  know." 

"  Well,  isn't  this  great  news?  "  David  asked,  joining 
them.  "  Wasn't  she  a  horrid  little  thing  not  to  send  her 
story  to  us,  Rita?  " 

"  But  I  wanted  to  have  one  in  another  magazine  first, 
David,"  Marjorie  explained,  and  he  pinched  her  cheek  and 
laughed  at  her  earnestness. 

"  You're  coming  out  with  us?  " 

"Yes — we'll  run  down  and  get  ready,"  said  Rita.  She 
was  glad  for  Marjorie  Lane,  but  she  was  conscious  of  a  slight 


PROLOGUE  265 

twinge  of  jealousy.  Marjorie  was  so  very  pretty.  And  now 
a  story.  She  wondered  what  Donald  would  think  of  Mar- 
jorie. 

Ill 

Rita  pasted  the  proofs  of  her  two  picture  pages  in  the 
dummy  of  Lisbon's  Magazine  and  then  turned  the  pages 
idly.  It  looked  like  a  good  number ;  the  cover  was  fair,  and 
there  was  interesting  material  following  it.  Marjorie  Lane's 
article  was  well  done  and  Rita  had  worked  for  a  long  time 
with  Hughes,  the  make-up  man,  over  the  photographs  and 
the  heading.  Marjorie  would  like  it. 

"  Going  home  tonight?  "  David  asked  her  as  he  crossed 
to  the  washbowl  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  and  rolled 
up  his  sleeves. 

Rita  glanced  at  her  wrist-watch — half-past  five.  "  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I'm  not,"  she  said.  "  Mother  and  Father 
have  a  dinner  on,  and  Mother  asked  if  I'd  mind  going  out. 
What  are  you  and  Marjorie  doing?  " 

"  Marjorie  has  an  engagement,  too.  We  seem  to  be 
deserted,  Rita.  Will  you  dine  with  me?  " 

"  I'd  love  to.    And  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about — " 

"  Xo  shop-talk,"  David  said.    "  Not  a  chance." 

Rita  smiled.  "  We  always  do,  don't  we?  "  she  said.  "  We 
haven't  had  a  really  nice  talk  about  anything  but  the  mag 
for  most  a  year.  Let's  go  to  Gaston's — it's  cheap,  and 
rather  nice." 

They  walked  up  the  Avenue  together,  turned  into  a  side 
street,  and  walked  past  the  bar  of  the  dingy  little  restau- 


266  PROLOGUE 

rant.  Within  the  dining-room  there  was  the  clatter  of  dishes; 
the  strident  voices  of  the  peasant  waitresses,  "  Trois 
soupesl"  calling  down  into  the  kitchen;  the  babble  of 
French  voices.  At  a  long  table,  three  French  sailors,  in 
stiffly  starched  middy-blouses,  with  their  red-topped  hats 
hanging  neatly  behind  them  on  pegs,  were  chattering  and 
gesticulating.  The  waitress  brought  the  huge  tureen  of 
soup,  colorless,  dirty  looking  liquid  with  great  pieces  of 
bread  floating  about,  that  was  delicious  in  proportion  to 
its  lack  of  beauty. 

"Beautiful  soup!  "  said  Rita.  "  So-up  of  the  evening 
bee-you-ti-ful  so-ou-ou-oup!  " 

David  smiled. 

"  I  brought  Fran  here  once  and  she  almost  died/'  she 
said.  "  But  I  like  it— don't  you?  " 

"  Very  much.  I  think  this  is  the  first  time  I've  ever  had 
dinner  with  you  alone,  Rita." 

"  I  guess  it  is.  Let's  make  a  night  of  it  and  take  a  'bus 
ride  afterwards." 

"  All  right." 

They  were  glad  to  get  out  of  the  hot  room  and  its  odors 
of  cooking,  lucky  to  find  seats  on  the  top  of  a  Riverside 
*bus.  They  sat  quietly,  smiling  contentedly  at  the  warm 
evening  and  the  stars.  The  T>us  lumbered  along  Seventy- 
second  Street  and  turned  into  the  drive.  The  lights  of  the 
river  ships  slid  back  and  forth  over  the  surface  of  the  water ; 
on  the  Jersey  side  of  the  Hudson,  lights  gleamed  steadily 
and  mistily,  climbing  the  cliffs. 

Rita's  hand  slipped  down  contentedly  and  grasped  David's. 
"  It's  so  lovely,"  she  whispered.  The  drowsy  breeze  swept 


PROLOGUE  267 

back  over  the  'bus  top ;  hats  were  taken  off  and  heads  leaned 
on  masculine  shoulders. 

"  Let's  get  out  and  walk,"  he  said  abruptly.  They  rang 
the  bell  and  crossed  to  the  path  along  the  river.  The  street 
lamps  were  dim  and  people  walked  past,  hand  in  hand,  talk- 
ing softly,  or  for  the  most  part  not  talking  at  all.  They  sat 
down  on  a  bench  and  looked  out  through  the  trees  at  the 
still  water.  David's  hand  found  Rita's  now,  and  they  sat 
silently,  breathing  the  peace  of  the  evening. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Donald  lately?  "  David  asked. 

"  A  little  letter.  He  writes  fairly  often,  but  he  never 
says  very  much.  Why,  David?  " 

In  the  dim  light  she  could  see  his  smile. 

"  You're  almost  twenty,  aren't  you,  Rita?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you're  happy?  " 

Rita  threw  back  her  head  and  looked  up  at  the  stars. 
"  Yes — I'm  happy,"  she  said.  She  looked  at  him  suddenly. 
"  Are  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I'm  growing  up,"  Rita  said.  "  I  still  don't  know 
exactly  what  I  want,  David.  I  suppose  it's  marriage,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Is  it?  " 

"  I  think  so.  I  like  my  work — I  like  my  life  now.  It's 
complete  in  a  way,  but  it's  incomplete.  You  see  I  haven't 
any  great  ambition — I  haven't  any  special  talent.  There's 
something  needed  to  round  off  things.  You've  got  it  now 
in  Lisbon's — an  instrument  for  saying  the  things  that  you 
feel  should  be  said." 


268  PROLOGUE 

"  Yes." 

"  There  isn't  so  much  that  I  want  to  say."  She  frowned. 
"  Nor  so  much  that  I  want  to  do.  I  don't  know, 
David.  .  ." 

"  Children?  " 

•'*  I've  never  thought  about  them.  Somehow  I  can't  think 
of  them  in  connection  with  me.  Abstractly,  they're  nice. 
Peg's  is  a  darling.  But  for  me — I  don't  know,  David." 

"I'd  like  children,"  he  said  quietly. 

Rita  turned  towards  him  gently.  "Why  haven't  you 
ever  married,  David?  Wouldn't  you  be  happier?  " 

"  I  guess  I've  never  cared  enough  for  anyone,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  I've  always  been  so  busy,  and — I  never  met  her 
while  I  was  young.  I'm  forty-five  now." 

"  But  you're  not  old."  She  looked  at  him  again  thought- 
fully. "  Sometimes  it  seems  strange  to  me  that  we  never  fell 
in  love,"  she  said.  "  Not  that  you  never  fell  in  love  with 
me;  there's  no  reason  why  you  should.  But  that  I  never 
loved  you — that  way.  Because  you're  everything  I  like.  I 
love  to  be  with  you.  I'm  happier  with  you  than  with  any- 
one. And  yet  you're  always  just  my  friend." 

He  was  silent. 

"  And  I  don't  usually  have  men  friends,  somehow,"  she 
went  on.  "  It's  hard  for  me  not  to  think  of  love — I  suppose 
it's  hard  because  I've  never  had  love  and  I  want  it.  I  think 
I've  always  loved  you  too  much,  been  too  interested  in  what 
you  had  to  teach  me,  to  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"  I  guess  that's  it,"  he  said  quietly. 

Rita  turned  quickly  and  looked  at  him.  "  Why,  David!  " 
she  said  suddenly. 


PROLOGUE  269 

"  What,  dear?  " 

Her  hands  dropped  to  her  sides  and  she  looked  at  him 
in  amazement.  "  Why,  David!  "  she  repeated,  awed  and 
almost  frightened  at  the  thought  that  swept  over  her,  that 
she  could  not  shake  off.  He  met  her  gaze  squarely,  and 
then  his  eyes  dropped.  He  smiled. 

"  You  never  guessed?  "  he  asked. 

"  But — "  As  she  looked  at  him,  she  felt  the  tears  rise 
to  her  eyes ;  her  throat  contracted,  and  she  put  her  hand  up 
to  it. 

"  Rita  dear!  "  he  said  gently.  "  It  doesn't  matter.  I 
knew  that  you  didn't  care  for  me,  and  I  think  I've  been  glad. 
You  see — I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  child.  It's 
been  absurd — my  falling  in  love  with  you.  You've  made  me 
very  happy  by  giving  me  all  your  affection  and  trust.  You 
don't  know  how  happy  you've  made  me.  Why,  Rita,  just 
think,  you  might  not  have  liked  me,  even." 

"  I've  been  so  stupid!  "  Rita  said. 

"  Foolish  child,  you've  been  nothing  of  the  kind.  And 
don't  begin  now." 

"  I  won't."  Rita  sat  helplessly;  words  would  not  come, 
and  she  wanted  more  than  anything  to  talk.  "  But  why — " 
she  began  finally. 

He  laughed.  "  I  think  I'm  glad  you  know,"  he  said.  "  I 
know  that  my  Rita  won't  let  it  make  any  difference — she's 
too  honest  and  too  kind.  And — " 

"  Kind?  "  Rita  faltered. 

"  Yes.  And  I  want  you  to  be  very  happy.  I  don't  know 
who  it  will  be — Donald  or  someone  else — but  it's  coming 
to  you." 


270  PROLOGUE 

She  sat  up  suddenly.  "  Oh,  but  I  know  now,"  she  said 
excitedly.  "  It  never  could  be  Donald.  I've  been  unkind — 
unfair.  I  guess — I  guess  I  didn't  know  what  loving  someone 
was  like.  I  never  thought  of  giving  Donald  anything.  I 
just  thought  of  what  he  could  give  me.  I  don't  believe 
I  want  to  give  Donald  anything.  I — why,  David!  " 

She  did  not  understand  the  look  of  happiness  that  settled 
over  his  face  as  she  turned  to  him.  She  did  not  know  that  in 
the  moment  that  she  had  taken  away  the  last  of  his  hope, 
she  had  given  him  the  assurance  he  wanted.  He  felt  as 
though  the  girl  he  had  dined  with  had  been  miraculously 
transformed  into  a  woman  in  a  single  instant. 

"  Why — that's  why  Marjorie  is — happy,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  again.    "  What,  Rita?  " 

"  Because  she  loved  him  and  gave  to  him  and — I  couldn't 
understand  why  she  didn't  hate  him  for  going  and  getting 
killed  like  that  and  spoiling  her  happiness.  I  thought  I 
would.  It  seemed  so  unfair.  He  was  dead,  but  she — " 
Rita's  head  was  whirling.  It  seemed  as  though  something 
had  fallen  into  her  mind  that  cleared  and  swept  away  things 
before  it ;  it  was  like  dropping  a  spoonful  of  cold  water  into 
muddy  coffee. 

"  We'd  better  be  going  back,"  David  Ashley  said.  He 
leaned  over  and  kissed  her.  "  Come  along,  dear." 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  his,  a  small,  hot  hand,  like  a 
child's.  "  All  right,  David,"  she  said. 

All  the  way  back  on  the  'bus,  she  was  unaware  that  he 
watched  her  changing,  bewildered  face,  and  smiled  softly 
to  himself. 


PROLOGUE  271 

IV 

Rita  smiled  at  Lilias,  sitting  at  the  breakfast  table. 
Neither  she  nor  her  father  were  yet  accustomed  to  seeing 
her  in  a  trim  dress,  with  her  hair  neatly  coiled,  instead  of 
in  a  soft  negligee.  Rita  turned  to  her  grapefruit  and  her 
letters. 

May  i8th,  1918. 
DEAR  RITA: 

It's  a  long  time  since  I've  written  you,  but  at  least  I've 
got  something  exciting  to  say  now.  I'm  going  to  be  mar- 
ried in  June!  I  don't  know  whether  you  ever  met  him — 
Bert  Proctor.  The  Proctors  live  in  the  big  house  near 
ours — the  one  with  the  iron  deer  you  always  loved.  They're 
an  awfully  good  family,  and  terribly  rich. 

But  I  really  love  Bert.  He  was  gassed  and  wounded, 
and  he's  got  his  discharge  from  the  army.  We  were  almost 
engaged  when  he  went  over,  and  letters  and  all  that  com- 
pleted it. 

I  want  you  to  be  a  bridesmaid — Marian  Bailey  from 
school  is  going  to  be  one,  and  two  other  girls  you  don't  know. 
I  hope  you  can  come — it's  going  to  be  awfully  nice.  I'm 
going  to  have  a  pretty  wedding  at  home,  with  roses  and 
honey-suckle  all  over  the  house.  The  sixth  of  June,  Rita 
darling.  Do  write  me  that  you'll  come. 

My  best  regards  to  all  your  family — Mother  sends  love 
also. 

JANET  CROSBY. 


272  PROLOGUE 

"  Remember  Janet  Crosby,  Mother?  "  Rita  asked.  "  At 
school  with  Fran  and  me?  She's  going  to  be  married  and 
wants  me  to  be  a  bridesmaid." 

"  She's  the  girl  you  visited  one  summer?  " 

"  Yes — where  I  saw  Donald  for  the  first  time  after  I'd 
left  Aunt  Helen's.  I  think  I'll  go — it  will  be  nice  to  see 
them  all  again.  And  Marian  Bailey,  the  fat  girl  who  was 
such  fun."  Rita's  eyes  shone  with  excitement. 

"  When  is  it?  " 

"  June  sixth.  We're  really  growing  up,  Mother — I  think 
Janet's  the  first  girl  from  the  class  to  be  married.  Of  course 
Fran's  engaged,  but  she  was  older  than  the  rest  of  us." 

Rita  looked  forward  to  her  visit  in  Brookline,  and  to 
Janet's  wedding.  It  was  a  long  time  since  she  had  known 
any  of  the  Crosbys'  sort  of  people;  people  who  went  to 
church  on  Sunday  and  made  formal  calls,  who  "  kept  up 
appearances  ".  In  June,  in  the  Crosby  home,  it  all  came 
back  to  her;  the  tired,  discontented  wife  who  had  wanted 
Janet  to  have  all  the  things  she  had  missed  in  life;  the  gay, 
irresponsible  husband,  who  thought  of  himself  before  either 
his  wife  or  daughter.  The  house  was  painfully  patched  and 
artificial. 

"  Isn't  it  glorious  that  Janet's  going  to  get  out  of  it  all?  " 
Mrs.  Crosby  said  to  Rita  one  evening,  when  Janet  and 
her  fiance  were  out  riding.  "  An  automobile  and  servants, 
a  big  house  and  social  position!  "  Mrs.  Crosby  had  accepted 
Rita  as  another  woman;  she  understood  the  difference  be- 
tween Rita  and  her  daughter,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to 
have  someone  to  talk  with.  Rita  was  "Bohemian";  she 
was  a  suffragist  and  one  of  those  independent  women — 


PROLOGUE  273 

"  bachelor  girls  ".  One  could  talk  to  them  about  all  sorts 
of  things,  even  though  they  were  unmarried.  Mrs.  Crosby 
took  a  certain  delight  in  the  calm  way  her  daughter's  friend 
stopped  her  husband's  flirtatious  advances,  waved  him  back 
to  the  ranks  of  fathers  and  the  middle-aged. 

"  It's  awfully  nice,"  Rita  said.  And  it  was  nice — for 
Janet. 

"  He's  a  splendid  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Crosby.  "  Of  course 
he  hasn't  much  brains,  but  you  don't  need  them  with 
money." 

"  No,"  Rita  agreed,  laughing. 

"  And  Janet  is  just  an  ordinary  girl.  She  isn't — oh,  like 
you." 

"  No,"  Rita  agreed  again.  "  She's  awfully  pretty,  Mrs. 
Crosby." 

"Isn't  she,  though!  "    The  mother  smiled  contentedly. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  after  she's  married?  " 

"  Me?  I'm  a  middle-aged  woman,  Rita.  I'll  just  sit 
around  and  try  to  stall  off  old  age  as  long  as  I  can."  She 
smiled  ruefully. 

"  There  ought  to  be  a  national  league  for  women  to  join 
when  their  children  leave  them,"  Rita  said.  "  There's  so 
much  you  women  can  do  after  the  children  are  gone.  You're 
wiser  and  more  fitted  to  do  things — you're  more  tolerant 
and  understanding." 

"  Suffragette!  "  Mrs.  Crosby  scoffed,  but  she  was  pleased. 
"  You'd  better  not  let  Bert  hear  you  talk  like  that  or  he'll 
not  let  Janet  be  friends  with  you.  He's  very  narrow." 

"Is  he?  "  Rita  liked  Mrs.  Crosby  and  was  sorry  for 
her.  "  You  and  your  husband  ought  to  come  on  to  New 


274  PROLOGUE 

York  after  Janet's  wedding,"  she  said.  "  You  ought  to  have 
a  honeymoon,  too." 

Mrs.  Crosby  laughed  delightedly.  "  Would  you  show  me 
around  Greenwich  Village?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  by  all  means." 

"  Is  it — very  awful?  " 

"Terrible!"  Rita  assured  her  cheerfully.  "Free  Jove 
and  dirty  restaurants  and  alley  cats  and  artists'  models 
and—" 

Mrs.  Crosby's  eyes  grew  round. 

"  It's  really  most  interesting,"  said  Rita. 

"  And  do  the  women  smoke?  " 

"  They  do,"  Rita  said  sadly.  She  wanted  to  laugh;  Janet 
had  evidently  kept  the  news  of  her  horrible  habits  from  her 
mother. 

The  day  of  the  wedding  drew  nearer  and  finally  came. 
Because  Rita  did  not  share  the  excitement  of  the  other 
three  bridesmaids  and  the  hysteria  of  Mrs.  Crosby,  she  sat 
in  Janet's  room  and  helped  adjust  the  white  satin  dress,  the 
soft  veil. 

"  You  look  lovely,  Janet." 

Janet  gazed  at  her  reflection  admiringly.  She  had  grown 
more  slender  in  the  years  since  school,  but  her  fresh  com- 
plexion, her  fair  hair,  were  the  same.  She  powdered  her 
nose  critically.  "  The  newspapers  are  sending  up  some 
photographers,"  she  said.  "  I'm  going  to  have  the  pic- 
tures taken  out-of-doors — the  parlor  looks  all  right,  but  I 
think  it's  a  little  more  swell  against  trees  or  the  pergola, 
don't  you?  " 

"  Much,"  agreed  Rita.     She  looked  lovely  herself  in  a 


PROLOGUE  275 

pale  green  chiffon  dress — the  other  bridesmaids  had  sighed 
with  relief  when  Rita  chose  the  most  trying  of  the  four 
colors. 

"  I  look  all  right?  " 

"  Beautiful,  Janet." 

Mrs.  Crosby,  with  untidy  hair,  fluttered  into  the  room. 
Rita  buttoned  her  dress  for  her,  and  adjusted  the  lace  about 
her  neck,  tightened  her  hair-net  skilfully. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we'd  do  without  you,  Rita,"  Mrs. 
Crosby  said.  "  Oh,  Janet,  my  dear — " 

Rita  left  them  alone,  although  she  knew  there  would  be 
no  exchange  of  confidences  between  them;  no  word  from 
the  confident  young  daughter  to  soothe  her  mother's  anxie- 
ties. 

The  wedding  went  off  smoothly;  the  minister  coughed 
nervously  and  Janet's  responses  were  low.  Mrs.  Crosby 
wept  appropriately,  and  Mr.  Crosby  stood  stiffly,  smiling 
uncertainly.  He  was  almost  bursting  with  pride.  Rita 
flushed,  when  it  was  she  who  caught  the  bridal  bouquet  that 
hurled  down  the  stairs  from  Janet's  hands.  Mrs.  Crosby 
beamed  excitedly. 

"  It  was  a  lovely  wedding,"  Rita  said. 

"Was  the  food  all  right?  The  Proctors  are  so  swell  and 
— we  had  an  awfully  expensive  caterer." 

"  It  was  delicious,"  Rita  soothed  her. 

"  I  was  so  mortified  when  the  maid  spilled  that  plate  of 
cakes." 

"  No  one  noticed." 

Rita  returned  to  New  York,  still  amused  at  the  wedding 
and  intensely  grateful  that  she  was  the  sort  of  person  she 


276  PROLOGUE 

was.  A  week  in  a  respectable,  conventional  community  was 
a  good  thing  for  her,  she  decided.  She  felt  that  New  York 
could  never  discontent  her  again.  She  walked  from  the 
station  to  a  hotel  and  had  a  delicious  breakfast  alone, 
smoked  two  cigarettes  afterward.  New  York!  The  free- 
dom of  it;  the  simplicity.  She  went  back  to  the  office  that 
afternoon  with  new  energy  and  interest. 


CHAPTER    FOUR 


IT  was  the  morning  of  November  seventh,  1918.  Rita  was 
riding  on  the  top  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  'bus  to  keep  an  early 
luncheon  engagement.  The  day  was  warm  and  pleasant, 
with  a  crispness  in  the  air  that  brought  color  to  her  cheeks. 
Down  on  the  sidewalk,  a  group  of  girls  had  come  out  of  one 
of  the  smart  shops,  and  were  standing  looking  up  at  the 
sky.  Rita  glanced  up  and  saw  three  airplanes,  leaping  and 
turning,  twisting  and  flashing  their  wings  in  the  sunlight. 
She  smiled;  they  were  having  a  good  time  up  there,  those 
boys.  All  Fifth  Avenue  watched  them  until  a  sudden  boom 
of  cannon,  a  sudden  clamor  of  sirens  gone  mad,  interrupted 
them.  People  turned  blank  faces  toward  each  other. 

"  What  is  it?  "  the  woman  who  shared  the  seat  with 
Rita  asked. 

"  I  don't  know." 

They  looked  down  at  the  street,  wondering.  Siren  after 
siren  screamed  out;  suddenly  an  automobile  rushed  up 
the  Avenue,  its  cutout  rivaling  the  whistles  for  clatter. 
People  poured  from  the  stores;  Rita  and  the  woman  looked 
at  each  other,  wondering. 

"  My  Gawd!  "  The  woman  clutched  Rita's  arm. 
"Look!  " 

277 


278  PROLOGUE 

An  automobile  tore  up  the  street;  pasted  across  its  wind- 
shield was  a  newspaper.  GERMANY  SURRENDERS! 
A  second  automobile.  WAR  ENDED!  Again— GER- 
MANY SURRENDERS! 

The  woman  beside  Rita  began  to  cry  hysterically.  In  a 
minute  the  Avenue  was  a  confusion  of  automobiles,  honking 
their  horns,  opening  their  cutouts,  and  people.  Every  store 
emptied  itself  on  the  street;  lovely  saleswomen  from  the 
French  shops,  immaculate  in  black  taffeta,  with  marceled 
coiffures;  dirty  men  and  women  from  the  sweat-shops  on 
the  side  streets;  business  men,  shoppers,  people  of  all  sorts. 
The  whistles  began  anew,  and  a  sound  that  was  almost  a 
sob  arose  from  the  Avenue. 

"  I'm  going  to  get  off,"  said  Rita.  She  hurried  down 
the  steps  of  the  'bus,  pushed  her  way  into  the  crowd.  A 
French  sailor  standing  on  the  curb  was  suddenly  seized  and 
kissed  vehemently  by  a  middle-aged  woman;  people  joined 
hands  and  looked  at  each  other  silently.  From  the  windows 
of  a  tall  office  building,  bits  of  paper  fluttered  down  over  the 
crowd;  receipted  bills,  newspapers,  stationery,  magazines, 
pink  and  yellow  and  green  requisition  slips,  everything 
within  reach.  In  five  minutes  the  Avenue  from  Fifty-ninth 
Street  to  Fourteenth  was  ankle-deep  in  torn  paper;  who  had 
thought  of  it,  who  started  it,  no  one  knew.  It  seemed  to 
begin  everywhere  at  the  same  moment.  Rita  found  her- 
self covered  with  it;  it  was  dripping  from  her  hat,  caught 
on  her  suit,  heaped  about  her  feet.  A  woman  caught  her 
hands  suddenly  and  kissed  her.  "  It's  over!  "  she  said. 
She  pushed  on  hysterically.  People  were  crying  and  laugh- 
ing; a  bewildered  American  soldier  was  hoisted  to  the 


PROLOGUE  279 

shoulders  of  two  pink- faced  business  men,  borne  amid 
cheers  and  shouting,  up  the  Avenue. 

A  girl  with  a  gold  service  star  on  her  flag  was  laughing; 
a  woman  with  two  blue  stars  on  her  shield  wept.  Rita 
found  her  hand  clasped  again  and  again;  men  and  women 
smiled  at  her,  cried  with  her.  Above  the  rain  of  torn  paper 
the  airplanes  cavorted  madly;  they  spiraled  and  twisted, 
shot  down  almost  to  the  buildings,  swooped  up  again.  Some- 
where people  had  begun  to  sing.  And  still  the  paper  deep- 
ened on  the  street. 

"  Rita!  "  It  was  Marjorie  Lane,  almost  hidden  by  the 
paper  shower  she  had  passed  under;  Marjorie  Lane,  crying 
and  laughing,  appearing  from  nowhere.  They  kissed  each 
other  excitedly.  "  I  just  saw  Fran.  Everyone's  here. 
Lucy  O'Day  is  on  the  corner  of  Thirty-second  Street  with 
her  arm  around  an  Italian  soldier.  Let's  find  David." 

They  pushed  through  the  crowd;  people  were  moving 
about  uncertainly,  standing  still,  sitting  down,  even.  At 
Madison  Square  they  found  David,  walking  dazedly  towards 
them.  He  put  an  arm  about  each  of  them  and  they  stood 
there,  watching  and  listening,  crying. 

II 

November  eleventh,  the  true  peace-day  came  and  passed ; 
life  slipped  back  into  its  old  routine.  The  waiting  look  in 
people's  eyes  faded  out  as  shipload  after  shipload  of  sol- 
diers was  landed. 

One  day  in  December  when  Rita  opened  the  door  of 
her  house,  returning  from  the  office,  she  was  swept  into  a 
pair  of  arms  and  kissed. 


280  PROLOGUE 

"  Donald!  It  isn't— it— Donald !  "  Together  they  went 
into  the  living-room  and  sank  into  chairs,  looking  at  each 
other. 

"  Just  landed,"  Donald  explained,  stuttering  in  his  excite- 
ment. "  C-came  right  up  here.  No  one  at  home.  Maid 
let  me  in.  My  God!  " 

"  Donald!  " 

They  sat,  facing  each  other,  their  hands  clasped  between 
them. 

"  Donald!  " 

"Rita!  " 

"You're  home!  " 

"  Home." 

They  laughed  excitedly.  "  Gosh,  I  don't  believe  it. 
Home!  "  He  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room  impa- 
tiently. "  Back  in  New  York.  The  dear  old  native  land. 
Home.  Gee!  " 

"  Does  your  mother  know?  " 

"Just  telegraphed  her.  I'm  leaving  for  Boston  tonight. 
God!  Mother  and  Dad.  The  kids.  Rita,  I  can't  believe 
it."  He  seized  her  and  lifted  her  high  in  the  air,  whirled 
about  with  her  in  his  arms.  "  Give  me  something  to  eat, 
will  you?  I've  got  to  get  the  train  in  half  an  hour — taxi's 
coming.  I  was  afraid  I'd  miss  you.  I'm  starved." 

They  went  together  into  the  kitchen  and  made  sand- 
wiches, ate  them  hungrily.  The  doorbell  rang;  the  taxi 
was  outside. 

"  I  hate  to  go,  Rita.  I'll  be  back  soon — as  soon  as  I 
can.  I'll  try  to  bring  the  folks  on  here.  Gosh!  Good- 
bye, Rita."  He  kissed  her  again,  and  she  stood,  clinging 


PROLOGUE  281 

to  the  door,  as  the  taxi  turned  and  hurried  up  the  street. 
The  two  weeks  before  she  saw  Donald  again  were  a  blur; 
life  was  like  a  moving  picture  that  is  reeled  too  quickly. 
Then  came  his  letter. 

January  6th,  1919. 
DEAR  RITA: 

Can  you  find  me  a  place  to  stay  in  New  York?  David 
can't  put  me  up — just  any  old  room  will  do.  I'm  coming 
back  to  get  a  job  and  start  work  and  see  you  all.  Leaving 
Wednesday  night — I'll  phone  you  at  the  office  when  I  get 
in. 

Yours, 

DONALD. 

She  and  David  found  the  room  together. 

"  We  must  have  a  party  for  him — all  the  old  crowd,"  said 
Fran.  "  Have  it  in  your  place,  Rita — that  room  is  the 
divinest  thing.  Just  think,  we're  all  together  again,  Lloyd 
and  Donald,  all  of  us!  Jim  can  probably  get  up  from  Wash- 
ington." 

Rita  agreed  unenthusiastically.  She  wanted  Donald  all 
to  herself  for  a  time.  But  when  he  arrived,  he  approved  the 
idea  noisily. 

"  And  I  want  to  meet  the  beautiful  Marjorie,"  he  said. 

"  She's  a  dear  girl,"  said  Rita. 

Donald  laughed.  "  A  dear  girl!  "  he  mimicked  her.  "  I 
thought  you  liked  her." 

"  I  do,"  said  Rita. 

But  at  the  party  when  she  stood  quietly,  watching  Don- 
ald and  Marjorie  dance,  she  wondered  whether  she  did 


282  PROLOGUE 

wholly.  It  was  silly  to  think  that  she  might  be  jealous 
of  Donald;  she  did  not  care  enough  for  that.  But  she 
felt  that  he  was  not  as  glad  to  see  her  as  he  might  have 
been.  He  came  over  to  her  after  his  dance. 

"  I  like  this  room,"  he  said.  "  We've  had  good  times  here, 
Rita?  " 

Rita  looked  up  at  him,  smiling.  "  Yes,"  she  said.  She 
waited,  watching  him. 

"  Shall  we  dance?     Fran's  putting  on  a  waltz." 

"  All  right." 

Afterwards,  they  sat  down  together  by  the  window,  and 
Donald  brought  her  punch  and  sandwiches.  "  I'm  not  going 
back  to  the  paper,  Rita,"  he  said.  "  That  was  just  play  for 
me,  really.  I'm  twenty-three,  and  I  want  to  get  started  with 
something  definite." 

"  What?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  I've  got  several  strings  out.  Dad 
has  given  me  letters  and  your  father  and  David  are  help- 
ing. I  want  a  regular  job,  you  know." 

They  lapsed  into  silence.  Rita  wondered  what  had 
become  of  the  long  conversations  she  had  been  looking 
forward  to ;  why  it  was  so  difficult  for  them  to  talk.  She  was 
grateful  to  her  mother  for  interrupting  them  and  bearing 
Donald  away.  He  stopped  and  spoke  to  Marjorie  Lane 
and  they  stood  together  for  a  moment,  laughing.  Rita 
wondered  why  he  was  so  much  more  at  ease  with  Marjorie; 
why  he  could  chatter  and  laugh  and  be  the  old  Donald 
again.  She  could  see  that  he  was  no  longer  in  love  with 
her;  almost  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  they  had  ever 
cared.  And  yet  perhaps  that  was  it;  perhaps  it  was  that 


PROLOGUE  283 

that  stood  between  them.  He  might  think  that  she  still 
cared!  Her  chin  tilted  indignantly  at  the  thought;  she 
would  explain  that  to  him  in  no  uncertain  words  at  the  first 
possible  opportunity.  Later  in  the  evening,  she  found  her 
chance.  She  had  gone  downstairs  into  the  living-room  to 
find  a  book  of  sketches  that  Lucy  O'Day  wanted  to  see,  and 
she  met  Donald  coming  down  as  she  turned  back. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you,  Rita.  Your  mother  wants  you 
to  bring  up  her  scarf  from  her  room — the  yellow  one." 

"  All  right.  Sit  down  a  minute,  Donald — I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

He  waited  obediently. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  say,"  she  said,  speaking  quickly,  "  that 
I  hoped  we  weren't  going  to  let  things  we  felt — thought  we 
felt — before  you  went,  stand  in  the  way  of  our  friendship. 
Because  I  like  you,  Donald.  Of  course  we  were  very 
young  and  hysterical  then,  but  we've  both  changed  a  lot, 
and  we  realize  that  we  didn't  know.  So — we're  friends?  " 
She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Of  course."  He  took  her  hand  and  smiled.  "  I'm 
glad  you  did  speak  of  it — I  wasn't  sure,  you  know.  I 
mean — " 

"  I  understand,"  said  Rita  quietly. 

"  You're  awfully  decent." 

"  Rot."  They  walked  up  the  stairs  together  and  Rita 
closed  the  door  of  her  mother's  room  behind  her  and  flung 
herself  on  the  bed.  He  didn't  care — he  didn't  care  a  bit. 
And  he  had  thought  she  cared.  It  was  humiliating;  she 
hated  Donald  for  not  caring.  She  got  up  abruptly,  found 
the  scarf  and  went  upstairs. 


284  PROLOGUE 

David  Ashley  was  standing  alone,  and  she  went  over  to 
him,  smiling.  "  I'm  going  to  make  you  dance  tonight, 
David,"  she  said. 

"  Nonsense — I  hate  it." 

"  You  won't  hate  dancing  with  me.  I'm  a  very  good 
dancer." 

"  But  I'm  abominable.  Run  and  have  a  nice  time  and 
don't  be  a  hostess." 

"  But  I  have  my  nicest  time  with  you,"  she  said. 

He  looked  down  at  her  gravely. 

"  Such  a  modest  person,"  said  Rita,  reaching  up  and  pat- 
ting his  cheek.  "  Thinks  a  lady's  being  a  hostess  just  be- 
cause she  wants  to  play  with  him." 

David  laughed.  "  Are  you  trying  to  flirt  with  me,  Rita?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Would  it  bore  you  so,  David?  "  Across  the  room  Don- 
ald was  asking  Marjorie  to  dance  with  him  again.  The 
music  started.  "  Please,  David." 

He-  shook  his  head.  "  You  are  in  love  with  Donald, 
aren't  you,  Rita?  "  he  said,  and  turned  away.  She  stared 
after  him,  her  cheeks  flaming.  Then  Jim  Norris  claimed 
her  for  a  dance. 

Rita  was  glad  when  the  party  started  to  break  up  and  she 
made  no  effort  to  hold  it  together. 

"  You're  tired,  Rita,"  her  mother  said. 

"  Dead,"  she  agreed.    "  Thank  God,  it's  Saturday." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anyone  look  so  lovely  as  Marjorie?  " 

Rita  looked  up  at  Lilias  with  sudden  suspicion,  but  she 
realized  that  for  once  her  mother  was  tactless.  There  was 
no  thrust  in  her  remark. 


PROLOGUE  285 

"  She's  beautiful,"  Rita  agreed.  "  I  must  say  good-night 
to  her."  She  crossed  the  room  calmly,  and  stood  talking  for 
a  minute.  After  the  last  guest  had  gone,  she  terrified  her 
mother  by  smiling  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  fainting. 

m 

"  Well,  I've  been  back  a  month  and  a  half,"  Donald  said 
to  Rita.  They  were  sitting  together  at  luncheon  in  a 
business  restaurant  near  her  office.  "  And  I've  got  a  job 
today  that  I  think  is  big  enough  to  interest  me  for  the  rest 
of  my  life." 

"  Really,  Donald?  "  She  liked  him  when  he  was  excited; 
his  brown  skin  seemed  to  grow  darker  and  his  eyes  danced 
like  the  eyes  of  the  boy  she  had  known  at  Aunt  Helen's. 

"  You  remember  your  father  gave  me  a  letter  to  Innis  of 
the  Star  and  Moon  Exporting  Company?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  He's  been  playing  with  the  idea  of  taking  me  on  for 
some  time.  All  I  have  in  my  favor  by  way  of  training  is 
my  boyish  enthusiasm,  but  it  seems  to  be  what  he  wants. 
It's  a  big  chance,  Rita.  Innis  is  dissatisfied — dissatisfied 
with  foreign  trade  in  general  and  his  own  in  particular. 
And  he  wants  a  man — I  don't  know  whether  my  status  is 
office-boy  or  assistant  president — sometimes  when  he  talks, 
I  think  it's  one,  and  sometimes  the  other.  But  he  wants 
someone  who'll  work  with  him  on  the  big  end  of  the  busi- 
ness— worry  about  things  from  a  mahogany  desk,  and  take 
trips  to  the  docks  and  the  storehouses  and  the  ports  them- 
selves." 


286  PROLOGUE 

"Oh,  Donald!  " 

"  It's  like  a  fairy-tale,  Rita.  It  means  travel — respon- 
sibility— a  chance  to  use  my  own  little  head."  He  laughed. 
"  Innis  was  telling  me  today  about  the  Japan  trade.  He  says 
our  trade  with  the  Orient  particularly  is  falling  off.  We 
don't  study  our  customers — we  don't  know  them.  The 
average  American  salesman  seems  to  be  a  bonehead.  For 
instance,  we're  sending  stuff  to  Japan  in  huge  crates  and 
boxes.  They  can  be  lifted  only  by  hooks  and  American 
machinery.  The  Japs  like  their  stuff  packed  in  baskets,  in 
boxes  with  handles.  We  don't  realize  that  they  use  human 
labor  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  where  we  use  machinery  and 
animals." 

"  And  you'd  be  looking  out  for  things  like  that?  "  she 
asked.  "  You'd  be  studying  people  and  their  ways — write 
some  stuff  for  us  on  it,  Donald?  " 

He  laughed.  "  You're  a  credit  to  David,"  he  said.  "  All 
my  literary  attempts  will  go  to  you,  Rita.  But  I'm  not 
expecting  to  do  much  writing — I'm  going  to  work  like  the 
devil." 

"I'm  so  glad  for  you!  "  Rita  said.  "You're  content, 
then?  " 

"  I'm  content.  It  seems  enough  to  fill  the  void  that's 
been  aching  away  like  an  empty  stomach  ever  since  I  got 
back  here.  I  want  action." 

Rita  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  "  I  think  that's  about 
the  way  I  felt  before  I  got  started  with  David,"  she  said. 
"  I  was  at  ends  with  myself.  But  now — " 

"  Now  you're  satisfied?  " 

"Almost,"  she  said.  "And  now  I've  got  to  dash  back 
to  the  office." 


PROLOGUE  287 

She  did  not  see  him  again  for  several  days;  then,  abruptly, 
he  telephoned  and  asked  her  to  have  dinner  with  him.  They 
talked  about  his  work  and  hers,  and  about  the  things  they 
wanted  to  do  with  their  lives — some  of  the  things.  They 
avoided  marriage  as  though  it  were  something  that  obviously 
had  no  connection  with  either  of  them.  Rita  found  her- 
self wanting  to  see  more  and  more  of  Donald,  to  hear  every 
new  development  of  his  work.  And  as  she  realized  it,  she 
avoided  him,  asked  him  to  dinner  less  often,  found  less  time 
to  take  from  her  office-work. 

She  did  not  know — at  least  she  had  not  actually  admitted 
to  herself — that  she  was  in  love  with  Donald,  until  Fran 
and  Lloyd  announced  their  first  party  in  their  new  apart- 
ment. Marjorie  Lane  had  bought  a  new  dress  and  she 
came  into  the  office  to  chat  with  Rita  and  David,  and  to 
tell  them  about  it.  After  she  had  gone,  Rita  sat  quietly, 
considering.  It  was  going  to  be  a  gay  party,  and  Marjorie 
was  going  to  look  exceptionally  beautiful. 

She  went  deliberately  to  the  cashier  and  gave  him  a  check 
for  more  money  than  she  had  drawn  at  once  from  her 
account  since  it  was  started.  She  left  the  office  and  the  piles 
of  work  on  her  desk,  and  took  a  taxi  up  the  Avenue.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  really  fastidious;  she  looked 
at  dresses  in  three  different  shops,  with  none  of  her  usual 
concern  for  the  saleswoman,  before  she  found  the  one  that 
she  wanted. 

As  she  stood  before  the  long  mirror  in  the  dressing-room 
while  two  sewing  girls  pinned  and  basted,  she  realized  that 
it  was  the  sort  of  dress  her  mother  might  have  bought.  It 
was  quite  unlike  anything  she  had  ever  worn.  The  founda- 
tion was  copper-colored  cloth  that  gleamed  like  metal;  the 


288  PROLOGUE 

shades  of  chiffon  that  were  caught  irregularly  over  it  could 
have  been  chosen  only  by  a  Frenchman  who  was  as  much 
an  artist  as  he  was  a  business  man.  The  flowers  at  the  girdle 
were  more  beautiful  than  any  real  flowers  she  had  ever  seen. 
And  there  was  an  air  to  it  that  made  her  feel  confident  of 
accomplishing  anything. 

She  paid  for  it  calmly,  and  had  just  enough  money  left 
to  buy  slippers  and  to  pay  her  waiting  taxi.  She  walked 
home,  half  ashamed  that  she  had  spent  so  much  money. 
Somehow  she  managed  to  tell  no  one  about  the  dress ;  when 
she  came  downstairs  into  the  living-room  on  the  night  of  the 
dance,  her  mother  and  father  who  were  reading,  looked  up 
and  gasped. 

"  Rita  Moreland!  "  Lilias  said. 

Rita  smiled.  She  was  beautiful,  and  she  knew  it;  she 
had  to  be  beautiful.  Even  her  father  finally  found  words. 
When  Donald  came  for  her,  she  was  wrapped  in  a  dark 
cape,  but  the  glory  of  the  dress  shone  in  her  face. 

"You're  lovely,  Rita!  "  he  said. 

She  smiled  again.  She  was  little  stirred  by  the  admira- 
tion she  caused  at  Fran's,  but  Donald's  eyes,  following  her 
about  the  room,  made  her  heart  leap.  She  had  avoided 
David  Ashley  all  the  evening,  but  finally  he  drew  her  aside 
and  into  one  of  the  small  rooms  that  had  been  deserted 
when  the  dancing  began. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  that  you're  the  most  beautiful 
thing  any  of  us  have  ever  seen,"  he  said. 

"  It's  funny  what  just  a  dress  can  do,  isn't  it?  " 

He  smiled  at  her.     "  You  do  love  Donald,  then?  " 

This  time  Rita  felt  no  resentment  against  him.     "  More 


PROLOGUE  289 

than  anything  in  the  world,"  she  said  simply.  "  I  didn't 
know  at  first.  And  then  when  I  began  to  realize  it,  I  was 
afraid.  I  don't  know  whether  he  cares  or  not — I'm  going 
to  make  him  care  if  he  doesn't." 

"  Why  do  you  know  now?  "  David  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  But  I'm  sure.  Donald  is 
an  awfully  average  person,  David.  He  doesn't  do  any  of 
the  things  I  admire — I'd  like  him  to  write  or  paint.  He 
can't  and  he  never  will.  But  I  don't  care.  I  want  him 
with  me  always.  I  want  to  live  with  him  in  a  house  of 
our  own  and  hear  him  talk  about  his  work  and  share  things 
with  him.  I'd  like — I'd  like  to  give  up  something  for 
him,  David." 

He  patted  her  hand  gently.  "I'm  not  afraid  for  you, 
Rita,"  he  said.  "  You  know  you're  a  very  average  person 
yourself,  really.  You  don't  do  any  of  the  things  you  admire, 
either.  I  think  you'd  be  discontented  if  you  were  married 
to  a  person  who  did.  You're  young  now,  and  you're  con- 
tent with  being  on  the  edge  of  things.  You  won't  be  always. 
But  with  Donald  you'll  be  content  anywhere — if  you  love 
him." 

"  And  I  do."  She  got  up  quietly.  "  Let's  go  back  to 
the  party." 

When  she  and  Donald,  at  the  close  of  a  dance,  found 
themselves  at  the  end  of  the  long  room,  away  from  the 
others,  Rita  sat  down  willingly  and  waited  while  Donald 
brought  her  something  to  drink. 

"  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  tonight,  Rita,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  Can't  we  get  out  of  this  and  go  somewhere— to  a  restau- 
rant? " 


290  PROLOGUE 

"  Yes,"  Rita  said.  She  got  her  cloak  and  they  walked 
silently  along  the  dark  street  to  a  cafe. 

"  Bar's  closed,"  the  waiter  greeted  them  as  they  sat  down. 

"We  want  coffee,"  Donald  said.  They  waited  until  he 
had  brought  it  and  gone  away.  "  Rita,  you  said  that  we 
didn't  know  before  I  went  away — that  we  were  just  to  be 

friends.     But  I  can't.    I  don't  want  you  to  be  my  friend. 
j » 

"  Did  you  just  find  that  out?  "  Rita  asked  him. 

He  looked  at  her  steadily.  "  I  want  you  to  marry  me, 
Rita." 

"  Sure?  " 

"  Of  course.  I — when  I  got  back,  I  didn't  know.  The 
thought  of  coming  back  and  marrying  you  before  I'd  had 
any  real  freedom  was  ghastly.  And  then  when  I  got  back, 
you  were  different.  And  I  thought  you  cared  for  Ashley." 

"  Not  like  that,"  said  Rita. 

"  I  didn't  know,  you  see.  And  then — oh,  it  sounds  rotten, 
but  you  were  so  settled  and  secure.  And  everything  was  so 
uncertain  for  me.  I  think  I  envied  you.  I  didn't  like  it 
because  you  didn't  need  me." 

"  Oh,  but  I  do,  Donald!  " 

"  Really?  "  He  reached  across  the  table  and  took  her 
hands. 

"  Really  and  truly,  Donald." 

They  sat  smiling  at  each  other  for  a  moment. 

"  I've  had  a  hard  time  in  a  way  since  you've  been  gone," 
Rita  said.  "  I  didn't  know  what  I  wanted.  And  I  was 
lonely.  I  almost — almost  loved  someone,  Donald." 

His  hand  on  hers  tightened. 


PROLOGUE  291 

"  I  mean — I  wasn't  going  to  marry  him,  Donald.  But 
I  was  going  to — to  live  with  him." 

"  I'm  not  a  Father  Confessor,"  he  said. 

"  I  know,  but  I  want  to  tell  you.  It  was  Fran  who 
stopped  me.  I  was  furious  with  her.  And  sometimes  I  feel 
that  it's  just  as  bad  as  though  I  had,  Donald — because  I 
really  wanted  to.  If  I  had — " 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't — but  it  wouldn't  have  made  any 
difference,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  I  suppose  I've  changed,  too. 
But  I  don't  know  why  I  should  expect  more  of  you  than 
I  can  give." 

"  It's  different  with  a  man,  somehow — at  least  people 
think  so." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do.  But  we  don't  have  to  bother 
about  that,  do  we?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  And  then  I  began  to  think  of  you, 
Donald,  as  something  that  was  safe — a  kind  of  balance- 
wheel  for  me.  You  don't  know  how — how  annoyed  I  was 
when  you  came  back  and  weren't  in  love  with  me!  " 

They  laughed  together.  "  I  was  a  little  annoyed,  too," 
he  admitted.  "  I  wasn't  sure  myself,  but  it  seemed  so 
unflattering  of  you." 

"  Oh,  Donald!  " 

"  But  now  it's  all  right,  Rita?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  And  you  do  care?  " 

"  Awfully."  She  wondered  that  it  was  all  so  simple,  so 
matter-of-fact,  now.  "  Some  day  I'll  show  you  the  receipted 
bill  for  this  dress,  Donald,"  she  promised,  laughing  sud- 
denly. 


292  PROLOGUE 

"  Then  it  was  on  purpose — tonight?  " 

"You  knew,  Donald."    She  smiled  reproachfully. 

"  Yes,  I  knew."  They  were  silent  again,  a  happy,  laugh- 
ing silence.  "  When  will  you  marry  me?  " 

"  Any  time." 

"  Tomorrow?  " 

She  laughed.    "  Next  week,"  she  said. 

"  And  we  don't  have  to  have  a  regular  wedding — all  that 
stuff?  " 

"  Lord,  no!  " 

They  paid  the  check  and  went  out  together,  walked  back 
to  the  Moreland  house. 

"  Good-night,  dearest." 

"  Good-night."  Rita  lifted  her  face  to  Donald's.  She 
ran  up  the  stairs  quickly,  took  out  her  key. 

"  Oh,  Rita!  "  He  bounded  up  after  her.  "  My  dear— I 
don't  believe  I've  told  you!  I've  kept  it  from  you." 

"  What?  " 

"  Why— I  love  you." 

Rita  laughed  as  his  arms  went  round  her  again.  "  I  don't 
believe  we  did  say  it,  Donald,"  she  said.  "How  funny! 
Oh,  Donald,  I  love  you.  I  love  you!  I  love  you!  "  She 
opened  the  door  and  went  inside. 

rv 

"  I'm  glad,  Rita,"  Lilias  said,  when  her  daughter  told  her. 
"  Of  course  marriage  is  a  kind  of  grab-bag,  and  yet  I'm  not 
so  awfully  afraid  for  you." 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  Rita  said. 


PROLOGUE  293 

"If— if  it  doesn't  go,  don't  be  a  little  fool  as  I  was, 
Rita." 

Rita  smiled.  "I  won't,  Mother.  I  think  we've  got  a 
lot  in  our  favor,  anyway.  I'm  going  to  keep  on  with  David 
for  a  time.  Donald's  starting  in  and  I  don't  want  to  be  a 
drag  on  him." 

"  But  will  Donald  let  you  work,  Rita?  " 

"  I  haven't  told  him  yet,  but  I'm  sure  he  knows  that 
I'm  going  to — after  all,  what  could  I  do  all  day  with  no 
work?  " 

Lilias  looked  at  her  daughter  helplessly.  "  But  do  men 
— like  independent  women?  "  she  asked  finally. 

"  Donald  does." 

Lilias  met  her  daughter's  eyes  and  laughed.  "  I  suppose 
that's  it,"  she  said.  "  It's  Donald  you've  got  to  think  of — 
not  men.  I  wonder — " 

"  What,  dear?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  think  you  could  have  given  me  good  advice 
if  you'd  been  present  when  I  married  Web,  Rita,"  she  said, 
smiling. 

Rita  patted  her  mother's  hand.    "  Goose!  "  she  said. 

Lilias  picked  up  her  knitting,  flame-colored  wool  instead 
of  the  khaki  that  had  grown  in  her  hands  for  so  many 
months.  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  giving  you  maternal 
advice,"  she  said  at  last,  embarrassed.  "  You  know  you 
make  me  feel  so  young,  Rita.  I  guess  I'll  get  you  a  charm- 
ing negligee  and  some  satin  slippers  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
What  are  you  going  to  be  married  in?  " 

"  I  hadn't  thought.     A  suit,  of  course." 

"  If  you  have  a  baby,  I'll  be  a  grandmother!  "  said  Lilias. 


294  PROLOGUE 

They  laughed  together. 

"  You  know — I  don't  think  I'll  mind,"  Lilias  said  sud- 
denly. "  How  funny,  Rita!  " 

"  I  shan't  have  one  right  away,  anyway,  dearest." 

"  A  grandmother!  "  Lilias  repeated.  "  And  Web  will  be 
a  grandfather.  He  won't  like  that."  She  put  aside  her 
knitting  and  stood  up.  "  I  think  I'll  go  in  and  tell  him, 
Rita!  " 

"  It's  probably  occurred  to  him,  Mother."  Rita  watched 
Lilias  with  amusement. 

"  How  funny!  "  Lilias  repeated.  She  leaned  over  sud- 
denly and  kissed  her  daughter. 


Louisburg   Square, 
Boston,  Massachusetts, 

February  i2th,  1919. 
DEAREST  RITA: 

Your  letter  and  Donald's  came  in  the  same  mail,  and 
Dick  and  I  laughed  and  cried  over  them.  We  loved  the 
way  you  insist  that  you  roped  Donald  into  this  engagement 
by  means  of  a  new  dress,  because  Donald  talked  of  little 
else  but  you  when  he  was  last  with  us.  Way  back  in  the 
winter  you  spent  with  us,  my  maternal  instinct  used  to  set 
me  wondering  whether  perhaps  some  day — !  You  know — 
at  least  you  will  know  before  very  long,  I  hope — how  we 
mothers  are.  And  of  course  while  Donald  was  overseas  I 
had  the  usual  maternal  brainstorms  for  fear  he  would 
marry  a  French  girl.  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  been  near 


PROLOGUE  295 

enough  one  to  have  had  the  chance,  but  just  the  same,  I 
used  to  wonder  how  she  would  ever  fit  into  the  family! 

The  children — how  they'd  take  me  to  task  if  they  knew 
I  called  them  that! — are  delighted. 

And  because  I  cannot  tell  you  in  a  letter  how  very  glad 
and  happy  I  am,  I  want  you  to  come  out  with  Donald  and 
spend  a  week  or  so  with  us  before  you  are  married — Donald 
speaks  of  the  marriage  as  apt  to  occur  at  any  minute,  but 
waiting  will  do  no  harm,  and  I'd  like  to  see  you  both.  It 
is  difficult  for  me  to  get  away  from  the  house,  or  I'd  come 
to  New  York. 

Ruthie,  of  course,  is  in  the  beau  stage,  and  I  have  my 
hands  full  with  her.  Peter  is  in  Latin  School  here — he 
was  so  lonely  at  boarding-school  that  I  had  to  bring  him 
back — and  he  also  is  at  the  stage  where  billiards  and  bowl- 
ing hold  many  fascinations  for  him.  And  even  Dick,  after 
twenty-five  years  of  marriage,  rather  needs  me. 

So  won't  you  come?  Don't  bother  to  write — telegraph. 
We're  ready  for  you  whenever  you  arrive. 

Love  to  you,  my  dear,  and  to  your  pretty  mother. 

Affectionately, 

HELEN  STARR  WELLS. 

Donald  and  Rita  boarded  the  Boston  train  together  one 
morning.  The  tiresome  trip  proved  delightful. 

"  It's  really  a  final  proof  of  the  advisability  of  our  mar- 
riage, Donald,"  said  Rita.  "  If  I  can  love  you  as  much  at 
the  end  of  five  long  hours  of  riding  in  a  stuffy  train,  as  I 
did  at  the  beginning — 1  " 

"  And  you  do?  " 


2g6  PROLOGUE 

"  I  do,  my  dear."  She  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and 
smiled  at  him.  "  I  know  such  a  lot  about  you,"  she  said. 
"  You  see  living  in  the  same  house  as  we  did,  I  know  that 
you're  quite  as  dull  as  I  am  at  breakfast,  that  you  don't 
take  cold  showers  in  the  morning — I'd  never  forgive  you 
that,  my  dear — and  that  you  like  to  sleep  late  on  Sundays." 

"And  I  know  that  you  don't  wear  curl-papers  or  pink 
wrappers  and — " 

"  What  do  you  know  about  such  things,  anyway?  "  she 
demanded,  laughing.  "  You  must  have  had  an  inferior  lot 
of  women  friends,  Donald." 

"  I've  read  magazines,"  he  answered.  "  Lord,  Rita,  it's 
going  to  be  fun  to  be  at  home  with  you." 

"  It  is  fun.  Just  think — it's  eight  years  since  I've  seen 
your  mother." 

But  the  eight  years  seemed  a  short  time  when  Rita 
was  folded  in  Helen  Wells's  arms  and  kissed  heartily  by 
Dick  Wells.  They  had  grown  older,  but  they  seemed  little 
changed  to  Rita.  Then  the  twins  bounded  into  the  room, 
Peter,  brown-haired  and  eyed,  shy  as  ever,  stocky,  and  in 
no  way  like  Donald;  Ruthie,  brunette,  too,  but  strangely 
like  her  older  brother,  for  all  her  resemblance  to  her  twin. 

"  Ruthie — you  young  woman,  you!  "  Rita  exclaimed, 
holding  her  off  and  looking  at  the  coiled  hair,  the  over- 
powdered  nose. 

Ruthie  giggled  delightedly  and  adored  her.  Peter's 
adoration  was  called  forth  as  instantly  when  he  came  for- 
ward, blushing,  for  the  kiss  he  had  nerved  himself  to  receive, 
and  found  instead  a  cool  hand  outstretched  to  grasp  his 
own. 

For  the  second  time  in  her  life,  the  peacefulness  of  a 


PROLOGUE  297 

happy  family  wrapped  itself  about  Rita.  She  had  felt  it 
unconsciously  as  a  small  girl,  but  now  that  she  was  a  woman 
she  appreciated  and  envied  it.  Uncle  Dick's  kiss  for  his 
wife,  when  he  came  home  from  work,  was  never  the  perfunc- 
tory dab  that  shocked  Rita  in  most  married  kisses;  the 
freedom  and  friendliness  that  the  three  children  felt  towards 
their  parents  was  so  natural  that  it  was  incredible  to  her 
that  it  was  so  rare. 

"  How  did  you  do  it,  Aunt  Helen?  "  Rita  asked,  when  they 
were  sitting  together  in  her  chintz-curtained  sewing-room. 
"  How  did  you  manage  to  make  such  a  home?  "  Her  ges- 
ture included  the  room  they  were  in ;  sunny  and  clean,  invit- 
ing. The  walls  were  spattered  with  absurd  framed  paint- 
ings that  the  three  children  had  done  in  different  years  of 
their  lives;  there  were  the  gray  mice  and  beautifully  round 
red  apples  of  kindergarten  days,  the  cherry  blossoms  and 
maple  leaves  of  primary  school,  the  "  sketches  from  life  " 
of  grammar  and  high  school  grades.  And  in  all  the  photo- 
graphs the  faces  of  the  children,  the  occasional  faces  of 
Helen  and  Dick  Wells,  smiled  contentedly. 

"  It  made  itself,  Rita,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  If  you  let 
it,  it  always  will." 

"  It  doesn't  usually,"  said  Rita.  "  It  doesn't  seem  as 
though  I've  seen  more  than  three  happy  marriages  in  my 
life." 

"  Of  course  I'm  no  judge  of  that.  I  think  that  happy 
marriages  attract  happy  marriages.  Most  people  that  I 
know  are  just  as  content  as  we  have  been.  But  it's  a 
woman's  fault  when  a  marriage  fails — a  marriage  that  was 
based  on  real  love.  I'm  not  saying  that  because  you're 
marrying  my  son,  Rita." 


298  PROLOGUE 

"  Oh,  I  know  that.  And  I  suppose  you're  right — that's 
why  I  want  you  to  tell  me.  The  secret  of  your  success, 
you  know,  like  magazine  articles." 

Aunt  Helen  laughed.  "  But  I'm  not  a  wizard,"  she 
objected.  "  I  can  only  tell  you  how  to  make  a  happy 
marriage  with  Dick  Wells  as  a  husband.  I  imagine  you 
know  Donald  better  than  I  do." 

"  I  wonder,"  Rita  said,  looking  again  at  the  funny  paint- 
ings, at  the  photographs  of  the  small  boy.  "  Tell  me  about 
Donald  when  he  was  little,  Aunt  Helen.  Was  he  naughty? 
Have  you  any  other  pictures  of  him?  " 

"Pictures?  I  have  even  curls!  "  Aunt  Helen  said.  For 
the  entire  morning  they  sat,  looking  at  photographs,  re- 
reading old  letters,  turning  the  pages  of  scrapbooks.  The 
album  for  Nineteen-ten  was  especially  fascinating;  Rita 
lingered  over  pictures  of  Donald  and  a  strange,  large-eyed 
little  girl,  with  long  thin  legs  and  arms. 

"  What  a  homely  kid  I  was!  "  she  said. 

"  You  were  a  darling.  Oh,  Rita,  you'll  never  know  how 
I  loved  having  you.  You  were  such  a  little,  starved 
child — "  She  paused. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  see  Mother  now,"  Rita  said  quickly. 
"  She's  changed  a  lot,  Aunt  Helen." 

"  I  like  your  mother,"  said  Helen  Wells.  "  I've  always 
liked  her.  At  school,  she  was  my  best  friend.  People  used 
to  wonder  that  we  loved  each  other  so  much — we  were  so 
very  different.  I  think  it  was  the  difference  that  attracted 
us;  we  each  had  so  much  that  the  other  lacked." 

Rita  thought  of  Fran  and  nodded.  "  And  you  knew 
Father?  " 


PROLOGUE  299 

'  Not  so  well.  I  never  was  so  fond  of  him— Dick  always 
liked  him.  He's  a  man's  man,  Rita." 

"  I  know.    That  was  the  trouble,  don't  you  think?  " 

"  Yes." 

Rita  sat  quietly  while  Helen  told  her  about  the  first 
years  of  her  mother's  marriage;  she  was  amazed  at  the 
sympathy  and  understanding  that  welled  in  her  voice.  It 
was  strange  that  "  good  "  women  could  be  so  tolerant  of 
women  who  had  done  wrong  in  the  world's  eyes. 

"  I  want  to  be  like  you,  Aunt  Helen,"  she  said  as  they 
went  together  into  the  dining-room  in  answer  to  the  luncheon 
bell. 

Helen  Wells  smiled.  "If  you're  like  yourself,  Rita, 
like  the  girl  you've  always  been,  you'll  be  all  I  want  in 
Donald's  wife,"  she  said. 

Uncle  Dick  and  the  twins  were  not  at  home  for  luncheon, 
and  she  and  Donald  and  his  mother  sat  together  at  the 
great  table  in  the  sunny  dining-room,  talking  and  laugh- 
ing. Rita  was  glad  that  Donald  looked  like  his  mother; 
she  liked  to  watch  them  together,  to  see  the  same  smile 
curve  their  lips,  the  same  lights  appear  in  their  blue-gray 
eyes. 

"  Let's  be  married  awfully  soon,  Donald,"  she  said. 
"  Let's  go  back  to  New  York  tomorrow.  I  want  to  stay, 
Aunt  Helen,  but  I'm  too  envious.  I  want  to  get  back  and 
find  my  apartment  and  begin  building  a  home  like  this 
for — my  husband." 

Aunt  Helen's  smile  was  misty.  "Well  all  go  down  to 
the  station  with  you  in  the  morning,"  she  said  gently. 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

I 

February  2316,  1919. 

I  THINK  that  this  is  the  last  time  I'll  be  writing  in  my 
diary.  I'm  not  quite  sure  why  I'm  doing  it  now — I  think 
it's  a  kind  of  swan  song,  before  I  forsake  the  little  brown- 
covered  books  that  have  helped  me  solve  so  many  difficulties 
for  the  man  who  is  going  to  help  me  solve  them  for  the 
rest  of  my  life.  It's  a  long  time  since  I've  written  in  here — 
life  has  been  too  full.  But  I've  just  finished  going  over 
my  clothes,  and  making  out  a  list  of  the  remaining  things 
I  need  for  my  new  place,  and  the  desire  to  round  things 
off  is  still  strong  in  me.  I  want  to  write  The  End  in  this 
book. 

We're  going  to  be  married  on  the  second  of  March,  a 
Monday.  That  leaves  me  just  a  week  to  be  Rita  Moreland, 
a  week  that  must  be  very  full  since  Bill  Curtis  has  left 
Lisbon's,  and  I  shall  have  more  than  my  share  of  work  to  do 
there.  Donald  is  busy,  too;  I  am  afraid  that  we  shall  see 
very  little  of  each  other  except  in  the  hours  we  are  working 
and  unpacking  in  the  new  apartment.  When  all  my  china 
and  my  shiny  pots  and  pans  arrived  last  week,  and  Donald 
drove  the  nails  for  them  in  the  woodwork  of  the  little 
kitchen,  I  had  a  sudden  wave  of  reaction.  I  wanted  to 
leave  Lisbon's  and  play  in  my  new  house,  do  my  own  work, 
be  a  regular  housewife.  If  Donald  had  had  any  of  the 

300 


PROLOGUE  301 

instincts  of  the  old-fashioned  male,  they  would  have  shown 
then.  But  he  laughed  at  me,  and  reminded  me  that  I  was 
a  modern  young  woman.  And  of  course  he  is  right;  I 
should  be  abominably  discontented  without  real  work.  For 
a  time— until  Donald  is  well  established  with  Innis,  and 
until  we  have  some  money  saved — I  shall  keep  on  with  my 
work.  I  want  to  have  a  year  or  two  to  play  with  him,  a 
year  in  which  perhaps  we  will  go  to  Japan  or  China  while 
Donald  makes  reports.  Then  I  think  I  shall  have  a  child. 

The  years  stretching  ahead  of  us  are  filled  with  endless 
possibilities.  All  the  things  that  I  could  not  have  alone, 
that  I  do  not  want  alone,  are  waiting  for  me  now.  I  think 
that  marriage  is  less  fair  to  a  man;  for  me,  it  means  free- 
dom, all  the  things  I  desire.  But  for  Donald  there  is  a 
certain  amount  of  restraint,  of  responsibility.  But  he  says 
that  he  doesn't  care.  I  shan't  let  him  care;  I  shall  make 
life  and  marriage  very  beautiful  for  him. 

I  feel  as  though  March  Second  mathematically  made  the 
first  break  in  my  life.  It  means  the  end  of  the  beginnings 
of  things.  There  have  been  so  many  beginnings;  all  the 
years — I  suppose  there  were  only  three  or  four  of  them — 
when  I  was  what  Aunt  Helen  calls  "  neither  hay  nor  grass  ". 
I  was  unhappy  to  the  point  of  satisfaction.  It  was  in  those 
years  that  I  did  most  of  my  reading,  most  of  my  discover- 
ing. Then  came  New  York. 

I'm  going  to  like  having  children — children  of  mine  and 
Donald's.  I  have  found  so  many  wonderful  and  interest- 
ing and  absorbing  things  in  being  alive.  For  a  time  I  want 
to  share  them  only  with  Donald.  But  I  know  that  as  they 
pile  up,  I  shall  want  to  share  them  still  more.  I  suppose 


302  PROLOGUE 

that  is  why  people  have  children — people  who  have  them 
intentionally. 

And  so  Rita  Moreland  is  going  to  disappear  on  March 
Second,  and  Rita  Moreland  Wells  and  Donald  Wells  will 
take  her  place — a  family.  The  world  seems  closer  to  me 
than  it  has  ever  been;  I  want  to  be  active  in  it,  I  want  to 
help  prepare  it  for  my  children  and  for  other  people's  chil- 
dren. It's  curious  that  even  politics  are  more  vital;  that 
the  government  we  are  going  to  live  under  has  a  new  signi- 
ficance. 

I  have  bought  new  clothes  for  the  new  Rita,  and  I  have 
patched  and  mended  old  ones.  And  it's  like  that  with  ideas. 
Everything  that  I  shall  take  with  me  into  our  new  apart- 
ment is  something  that  I  want,  something  that  I  have 
weighed  carefully  and  found  true  and  becoming.  On  every 
anniversary  of  our  marriage,  I  think  I  shall  weed  through 
my  things — my  clothes  and  my  books  and  my  ideas.  March 
Second  is  going  to  be  my  New  Year's  hereafter.  And  I 
want  to  take  only  the  good  things  from  each  year  into  the 
next. 

Oh,  I  am  happy!  It's  good  to  be  happy,  good  to  be 
alive.  I  wonder  what  Donald  is  doing  and  thinking  at 
home  in  his  room,  where  he  is  packing  his  things,  sorting 
out  letters,  destroying  papers.  He  must  be  sweeping  out 
his  own  ideas,  making  space  for  the  new  ones.  And  in  a 
week  we  shall  start  our  housekeeping  of  ideas  together. 
Donald  and  I.  And  that's  the  end  of  my  diary;  it's  no 
longer  the  diary  and  me,  Rita  Moreland  and  herself — it's 
Rita  and  Donald. 

It's  us. 


PROLOGUE  303 


II 

"  Well,  it's  your  last  chance  to  back  out,"  Rita  said,  as 
she  and  Donald  stood  together  at  the  door  of  her  house. 

"  I'm  not  scared." 

"  Tomorrow,  my  dear." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  silently.    "  Tomorrow,  Rita." 

They  were  married  at  the  Municipal  Building,  with  Lilias 
and  Webster  Moreland  as  witnesses.  The  ceremony  sur- 
prised them  both  by  its  brevity;  Rita  smiled  contentedly  at 
the  simplicity  and  dignity  of  it,  after  Janet's  wedding  of  the 
year  before.  Donald  had  groaned  at  the  suggestion  of  a 
dinner,  and  they  went  alone  to  a  small  French  restaurant 
near  their  new  apartment.  It  was  one  of  those  late  winter 
days  that  smell  of  spring;  they  mounted  the  stairs  of  their 
apartment  house  silently,  and  Rita  stood,  smiling,  while 
Donald  fumbled  with  the  key,  flung  open  the  door. 

Lilias  must  have  come  to  the  apartment  while  they  were 
at  dinner,  for  the  place  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of 
flowers  that  had  not  been  there  in  the  afternoon.  The 
window-boxes  that  Rita  had  decided  they  could  not  afford 
had  appeared  miraculously,  and  were  blooming  with  cro- 
cuses ;  a  squatty  pot  of  yellow  tulips  shone  between  the  brass 
candlesticks  on  the  hundred-legged  table.  Irregular  bay- 
berry  candles  were  lighted  about  the  room,  and  a  bowl  of 
blue  hyacinths  was  caught  in  a  ray  of  moonlight  in  a  dim 
corner.  They  stood  looking  before  them. 

"  It's  all — spring,"  Rita  whispered  finally.  "  Spring 
flowers  and  new  linens  and  the  beginnings  of  things,  Don- 


304  PROLOGUE 

aid."    She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  gently,  and  there  were 
tears  hi  her  eyes. 

"  The  beginnings  of  things,  Rita,"  Donald  repeated.    He 
bent  over  tenderly,  and  drew  her  close  to  him. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000115560     5 


